Just a Month, Maybe Two
David had the desk by the window on the fourth floor, the one that got sun until about ten. Eighteen months of that. After years of chasing invoices as a freelancer, he had a real salary, a two-bedroom with a dishwasher, and Barnaby, a golden retriever puppy who chewed everything but him. He caught himself relaxing in the shower one morning and almost didn't recognize the feeling.
The firm lost the Hendricks account at the end of August. Three weeks later HR slid an envelope across a table: two weeks' severance, and a cardboard box for the desk plant, which he carried to the elevator like a casserole. He told Dana, and himself, that it would take a month, maybe two.