Hey, Jim. I know this is weird because we haven’t really talked since… anyway, I just thought I’d call to tell you that I called off the wedding. Things just hadn’t been right with Roy for a long time, longer than either of us wanted to admit. I guess I just wanted to say that I miss you. I miss you and I really wish you’d come home. That sounds kind of selfish because I guess Stamford is your home now but that just doesn’t seem right at all… and now I’m rambling. Sorry. And not just about that, or the fact that I’m saying this all to your machine. I’m sorry about… about Casino night and the parking lot and upstairs by your desk? Those were all ridiculously bad decisions on my part. And I just hope it’s not too late. But I won’t push it if you never want to talk to me again. So if you call back I guess I’ll know-

Margaret Jones from Portland, Oregon, phone number one digit different than a James Halpert residing in Stamford, Connecticut, presses the pause on her answering machine and turns away with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Hey, honey? A girl called and left a message for someone named Jim. Know anything about that?”

A man’s voice comes from the garage.

“I don’t know a Jim. She must have the wrong number.”

“Must be.”

She hesitates over the red button, her fingertip brushing lightly against the plastic dome of it.

Message deleted. No more new messages.

Margaret bites her nail, the oddest sensation settling in her gut that something in the universe had just shifted.