Annabel came in the back elevator with her key. The first thing she saw was the breakroom. A mess: the coffee had been left on all night. The scorched coffee crushed her frail hopes like a paper lantern. Were there no janitors?

Helicopters thundered over the building. Smoke rose from the charred mass that was once coffee. She heard distant shouts. Her eyes wandered across the toppled styrofoam cups, the torn packets that bled sugar onto the table. There were splatters of red ketchup droplets. Someone had purposefully destroyed this table with bullet, flame and bayonet, with poison. The jets shrieked low overhead.