Three years ago, someone had asked if they could move the dial up to seventy degrees. The shades on the windows to his office were pulled shut against the afternoon sun, the air-conditioning blasting harshly, keeping him alert. He made a mental note to send out a memo to remind everyone that he had a sensitive nose, and that he shouldn’t be expected to work in such conditions. One of the night staff must have spilled something in his office, the scent thick and cloying. He folded his hands on his oak desk, his Arper Aston chair squeaking as he settled in for what he was sure was going to be a case of unfortunate histrionics, all while trying to keep from grimacing at the stench of bleach and Windex. “How did you know?” she said, her cheeks wet as she reached for the Kleenex box on his desk. Tears were pointless, and she was only delaying the inevitable. Little tears, big tears, full-on body-wracking sobs, it didn’t matter. Wallace Price hated it when people cried.
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