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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:

Hey! This is my first attempt at ‘Office’ fanfiction and I didn’t really realize how much the actors brought to the show before I tried to put their expressions, body language, and tone down in words, so please imagine Jim’s adorable puppy dog eyes when I unsuccessfully try to do them justice. Talking heads are in italics. Enjoy!

Pam cautiously walked up to the unfamiliar receptionist’s desk at the hospital, her bright white Keds fitting in with the rest of the nurses’ footwear and squeaking loudly, as f to alert everyone of her presence.

“Ma’am?” Pam asked.

The receptionist didn’t respond.

“Ma’am?” Pam asked again, leaning over the counter a bit to get the woman’s attention. She grudgingly looked up from her magazine, GQ, and turned around.

“Oh. Wow,” Pam said, instantly averting her gaze. ‘Ma’am’ was a he. With very, very long hair.

“I’m really sorry… um… I didn’t see…” Pam trailed off, still avoiding eye contact with the man. Instead, she looked at his name tag that read, “Hi! I’m your happy helper HAROLD!” Harold, however, did not look too happy, or even helpful for that matter.

“What?” he demanded, clearly irritated that someone had managed to interrupt and insult him with just one word.

“I’m here to see Jim Halpert. Um… could you tell me what room he’s in?” Pam asked, suddenly fascinated by the bowl of M&M’s on his desk, not daring to meet the eyes of the man she had just so embarrassingly insulted.

Harold ‘humph-ed’ and lazily ran his mouse over his computer screen.

“Twenty,” Harold said, after scanning a list. “Is that all?”

Pam nodded quickly, hoping not to offend him further. Harold turned his attention back to an article on picking the perfect tie for any occasion.

“Thanks,” Pam said meekly and hurried quickly off only to find that she had no idea which way Room 20 was. Instead of returning to the receptionist’s desk desk and testing how far Harold’s helpfulness could be pushed, she wandered the halls, passing by many wards with Latin names she couldn’t pronounce and many old ladies covered with afghans that wouldn’t stop staring at her.

She found herself about to ask one of these woman which way Room 20 was, but she just couldn’t seem to do it. Something was holding her back.

She felt her stomach grumble, and she was able to find the vending machine quite easily. She was hungry since she had given up her lunch break to come to the hospital. She leaned against the vending machine.

“No, I’m not stalling. Of course I want to see Jim, I mean, I would have never interrupted Michael while he was surfing for those pictures of Vanessa Ann Hudgens to ask if I could leave a bit early for lunch unless I really wanted to come.” She paused. “You want to know why’s it taking me so long then? I just thought it would be impolite to tell that one lady in the cat sweater and wheelchair that I wasn’t her daughter,” she said defensively.

“Miss?” a janitor said, popping his head around the corner and eyeing the camera curiously. “I have to refill the vending machines. Do you mind if I could--?”

“Oh. No, not at all. I’ll get out of your way,” Pam said, and she started moving down the hall, but turned around after a second.

“Wait!” she called to the janitor, who had bustled off to get a box from his cart.

“Yeah?”

“Could you tell me which way Room 20 is?” Pam rapidly spit out.

The janitor was immensely more helpful than Harold. “Yeah, it’s the first door on the right on the next hallways down. Why? Did Harold not help you? You’re the third person within the hour who he didn’t give directions to.”

So apparently Pam wasn’t the only one who had gotten on the sour receptionist’s bad side. She thanked the janitor and successfully made her way through the labyrinth of halls that smelled strongly like rubbing alcohol to Room 20 without being stopped by any more grandmothers in holiday sweaters.

The dull, blue plastic nameplate indicated that this was indeed Jim Halpert’s room. There was no mistaking it so there was no need for hesitation, but Pam didn’t open the door right away.

“Maybe I shouldn’t. What if he’s sleeping and I wake him up? I don’t want to do that. The number one thing you need when you’re in the hospital is rest… and a ‘Price is Right’ marathon.”

She looked at the door again, nervously and puzzled, as if it had just asked her to recite the alphabet in Arabic.

The door had no lock; no physical means were keeping her from entering.

“He’d come see me,” Pam whispered, and with that thought, she pushed open the door.

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