As the caller rambled on, William glanced at the small round mirror taped to the upper left corner of his stained beige computer monitor.
“Come on, Will! Wake up! I need to bring this report to Refurbished,” yelled Mike Rotchburns of Accounting. He loomed tall and gangly, like a scarecrow who’d made a devil’s bargain and learned to enjoy it. A tangled thicket of dark curls crowned his head, each lock defying gravity as if plotting its own escape. His face was long and pale, the kind of face that made children uneasy — all sharp cheekbones and a sinister grimace stretched a little too wide, as if he knew something you didn’t, and you wouldn’t like the punchline. Behind his thin-rimmed glasses, his eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a hint of menace too, like he’d happily watch the world burn if it meant a good story. A single earring swung from his ear, the lone survivor of some forgotten pirate life. He walked with the casual swagger of a man who could charm you out of your wallet and convince you it was your idea.
He slapped the back of Will’s chair jarring him out of his stupor. Will blinked, shook his head, and sluggishly rolled aside to let Mike pass, only to realize, too late, that he was still on the line with a customer.”
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