The week of the complex’s casino night, the quiet guy from the crazy office on the third floor had asked Tate if he would mind staying late the night of the event, just in case.  The mention of fire eaters in a paper warehouse struck him as odd, and he told Toby he would be able to stick around for a while so there would be someone outside the impending inferno who could call the fire department...again.

That Friday had been pretty boring, as far as days in building 4 went, with the exception of seeing nerdy Dwight walking around in a tuxedo that Tate’s swing band-leading grandfather would have worn.  Come eight o’clock, cars returned to the parking lot, and Tate was in his chair after his break, turning on the portable TV he happily brought to keep himself entertained.

Around 10:45 the squeak of the front doors opening startled Tate and he jumped up from his seat.  The curly haired receptionist walked slowly to the elevator.  Her shoulders were slumped and eyes downcast.  The confused and mournful look on her face told Tate not to ask what was wrong; she was obviously working something out in her head and hadn’t even acknowledged his presence.  The doors finally opened and she stepped in, moving to the side and leaning against the rails as the lift went up.

Settling back into his chair and turning his attention to the end of the local nightly news, Tate’s attention was again broken by the front door’s noisy hinges, and now that tall kid Jim was sulking into the lobby.  His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders pushed down by what Tate thought might be heavy losses at the craps table.  The salesman looked over to the guard’s desk.

“Slow night?”

“Thankfully.  That pretty receptionist of yours just went upstairs though.  Sad face on that one tonight.”

Jim’s eyes fell down to the grey tile. “Yeah.”  He inhaled deeply then gave a long sigh.  “Well, I’m gonna run up there and get some folders I forgot; see ya Tate.”

Instead of taking the elevator, the slouchy salesman opened the door to the stairs and marched slowly up and out of Tate’s sight.

It had reached 11:15 not long after Jim went upstairs. Toby came in to tell Tate thanks and that he didn’t need to stick around any longer; everyone was leaving and there had been no major mishaps.  As the guard scooped up his belongings, he realized that neither Pam nor Jim had left the building yet.  Curious but not worried, he left the lobby and looked forward to sleeping in late Saturday morning.