Pam’s eyes snapped open, as they did every morning, five seconds before her alarm clock went off. This time, though, she didn’t turn the alarm off when it blared. What was the point? She needed to figure out what she was going to do with herself now. If getting married to Roy wasn’t the goal—and while she wasn’t entirely willing to admit that it was off the table, she certainly wasn’t excited about it after that last cycle—what was the point?

Not that Roy was her whole life, but she realized in between the snoozes of the alarm that that was much truer than it ought to be. Her friends (Jim and Izzy excepted—and she hadn’t talked to Izzy in months) were Roy’s friends and their girlfriends (not, she realized now with some clarity, wives). Her social life was his social life. When had she let that happen?

A grumbling Roy reached over her to slam the alarm clock. “Geez, Pammy, how are you not up yet?” He rolled away and stomped towards the bathroom. She took the momentary peace of not, for once, being the first one up and into the shower to think about what she could do with her day.

Point one: this cycle, she was not going on the booze cruise. It would still be there later, but for now, it was too fresh.

Point two: she would, however, go to work. She wanted to see what happened if she bought Dwight’s wallet.

Point three: that meant she had to come up with a reason, or at least a way, to get out of work after the prank and before the booze cruise. She got up and made sure that her keys to the truck were in her purse. Roy could get a ride with someone to the cruise; she’d leave before lunch, claiming feminine upsets that Michael couldn’t comprehend.

What would she do after that? She’d figure that out on the way.

She hurried through her morning routine while Roy complained about not having breakfast ready, and they actually got on the road before they usually did because she didn’t bother to make him any. She wasn’t late; she actually had a moment to sit at her desk in order to time her entrance into the break room correctly. She and Jim had a system when it came to Dwight pranks: one of them, usually Jim, would initiate, and the other would count off twenty before wading in to assist.

Twenty seconds on the dot after Jim first set foot in the break room, she slipped past him and mock-pondered the selections on the machine. “Hmmm…I’m feeling lucky.” She punched in J-1.

Dwight tried to get it back, of course, but Jim smoothly slid into place and started eyeing his own purchase, which distracted Dwight just enough to let her slide the wallet open.

It was empty. Well, not actually empty. There was actually some cash, and a number of vouchers for things like free paintball games and buy-one-get-one at Bobble Warehouse and whatever a hogslaughter was (she was depressingly sure that it was exactly what it said, but you could never be sure with Dwight). But no ID. No insurance card. Nothing.

“Dwight?”

“Yes?” He stopped mid-harangue (something about how Jim could never care for his beloved bobbleheads correctly and so should not dare to buy them from the vending machine) and turned to her.

“Why don’t you have a driver’s license?”

Dwight grinned. “What makes you think I don’t have a driver’s license?”

She held up the empty insides of the wallet. “Um, that you don’t?”

Jim took one look at the wallet and smirked, turning towards Dwight. “Dwight, do you see a driver’s license in there? Are you hallucinating things again? Quick, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Dwight swatted Jim’s hand away. “I can see just fine. I just don’t keep my driver’s license in my wallet, in case of precisely this event.”

Head cocked, Jim surveyed Dwight as one might a cubist painting, trying to find a human shape among the disorder. “You don’t keep your license in your wallet in case someone buys your wallet out of a vending machine?”

“No, idiot, I keep my driver’s license out of my wallet in case of enemy action. You can never be too careful.”

Jim smirked again. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Nope. It’s a lie. Hey, everybody, Dwight doesn’t have a…”

Dwight clapped a hand over Jim’s mouth. “Silence, fool. I have my driver’s license right here.” Dwight started unbuttoning his shirt, and Pam felt it was time for her to reintervene.

“Really, Dwight?”

Jim glanced up at her and grinned. “Yeah, Dwight, there’s a lady present.”

“Where?” Dwight looked up inquiringly, still unbuttoning his shirt.

“Really?” Jim gestured at Pam, who put her hands on her hips.

“I was under the impression,” Dwight grunted as he pulled down his undershirt, “that ladies did not buy other people’s personal items and then rummage through them.”

“I don’t have any proof that this is yours, Dwight,” Pam answered sweetly. “After all, there’s no ID.”

Dwight looked briefly puzzled, then reached under his armpit and pulled out a holster. Inside there was no gun, just what was, upon the brief glance Pam threw at it, the smelliest Pennsylvania driver’s license she’d ever seen, issued to one Dwight Kurt Schrute.

She pretended to gag on the smell from under his arms. “Dwight, we believe you, now put that thing away.”

He obliged, and she shoved the wallet into his hand. “I’ll pay you everything in here just to never show me that again.”

“Deal.” He grabbed the wallet and shoved it in his pocket. “Perhaps you are a lady after all.” She started to thank him, but he wasn’t done. “Women are, after all, known for their poor tactical and business sense.”

“Aaaaaand on that note, we’re outta here.” Jim grabbed the bobblehead he’d bought while Dwight was stripping and marched out. “Pam, we need to figure out what Lieutenant Picard is going to do for the rest of the day.”

“It’s Captain Picard!” Dwight yelled after them. “And besides, that’s Darth Vader, you idiot!”

Pam and Jim giggled their way out the door and collapsed onto her desk side by side. It was a great way to start the day.

The rest of Pam’s extremely foreshortened day at work went smoothly. She joked with Jim, restocked the jellybeans, and looked up things to do in Scranton while she pretended to work. What had Bill Murray done? Ice sculpture, the piano, lots and lots of sex…she was blushing at her desk. And wouldn’t you know it, someone was there to notice. Of course he was—Jim must have eaten fifteen jellybeans already today, he was up at her desk so often.

“Hey.” Oh god, she could feel the warmth down to her toes. How was she supposed to respond to that? “You know, you don’t need to be embarrassed.”

How could he possibly know? What did he know? She hadn’t searched any of the…sex stuff on the computer. It was all in her head. How did he know?

“I don’t?”

“No. I have it on good authority that lots of women find…hogslaughtering erotic.” Oh. Thank God. He was looking at the contents of Dwight’s wallet that she’d spread out on the counter.

“Yeah, I’m just struggling to restrain myself from throwing my panties at him.” Did I really just say that? If she had been pink before, she knew she was something on the far side of burnt umber now. She realized she must have said it out loud, too, because Jim was coughing like he’d choked on a jellybean.

“You OK there?”

“Yeah. Just…quite the image there, Beesly.” He reached for another jellybean.

She fluttered her lashes up at him (and where had that come from?). “Are you telling me you’ve never imagined them before?” Before Jim could turn entirely purple, she burst out in a guffaw. “Jesus, Jim, I’m kidding.”

“Uh…yes, I got that.” He bent down towards her. “Unless you’ve been hiding a Dwight fetish from us this whole time.” She shook her head. “Good. Because I’d hate to think I’d misjudged you, Beesly.” And the conversation veered away from the dangerous territory it had entered and onto more mundane topics. Pam wasn’t sure if she was glad of that or sad—she’d really enjoyed tweaking Jim, and his reactions had been absolutely priceless. Maybe in some future cycle she’d have to explore that…see if she could make his head actually explode.

As she was pondering this idea, Jim finally came around to the reason he’d wandered up to her desk in the first place, which was (of course) to suggest that they send in Stanley to figure out what Michael had planned for the afternoon. An idea occurred to her—it wasn’t an entirely fair idea, but then again, what did it really matter? She’d be back here “tomorrow” anyway.

“Hey Jim, wanna bet on what it is?”

“Absolutely. What stakes?”

“Loser has to cover for the winner when they skip out on whatever the event is.”

“Sounds like a deal. I get to pick first though.”

“Go ahead.” There was no way he’d get it.

“Hmm…I’d still say bank robbery, but I don’t think even Michael would manage to keep that kind of secret for so long. So since you so foolishly let me go first, I’m going to steal your idea—overnight in the Poconos.”

“Cheat! In that case, I’m gonna go with…lake cruise.”

“Bold move, Beesly, given that it’s January. The lake’s frozen.”

“No, no, remember how unseasonably warm Christmas was this year? It all melted, and they’re starting up some early cruises to try to drum up publicity for the new dockside attractions that finished construction in November.”

“Hmmm…well, we’ll see. May the best man win.” They shook hands formally and he grinned. “Now to get Stanley to go confirm my victory.”

“Dream on, Halpert. Enjoy coming up with excuses for my inevitable absence from this stupid event.”

Jim just waggled his eyebrows and headed over in Stanley’s direction. Pam tried to pretend shock when she won, and ducked out of the office at the next opportunity, sticking her tongue out at Jim as she slipped through the door to the outside.

Freedom!

But what to do with it? She found herself wandering aimlessly, until she washed up at the library. It seemed like as good a place as any to stop, so she pulled in and hopped out of the truck. She had fond memories of spending hours at the library as a child, but she hadn’t been in a lot since…since then, really, but especially since she had moved out of her parents’ house. Her mom had always wanted to be a librarian, and so she’d inculcated in Pam a deep respect for the library, but there had just always been a reason not to go. Work, of course, or Roy being home, or Roy being gone and her waiting up for him, or a game on TV, or…just something that meant she had no time. So now she might as well look in, because if there was something she had now, it was time.

The first thing she spotted as she entered the main doors was one of those racks of local brochures that you usually see in a hotel in a strange city and completely ignore because you’re in town for a reason and you don’t need attractions. Today, though, she decided she wasn’t going to ignore it; she was going to raid it. Because she had a few days to kill…or a few millennia, perhaps. She swept all the brochures she could into her purse, deliberately ignoring the one that screamed NEW JANUARY CRUISES ON LAKE WALLENPAUPACK! with a jaunty photo of Captain Jack on the front. She went in and sat down in the little café by the door and sorted through the leaflets: one “maybe” pile for those things that might take more than a day to do properly (like overnight trips), one “no” pile for those things that either didn’t interest her, weren’t available on Thursdays, or were just ridiculous (why was there a brochure for a shiatsu massage place in Stamford, Connecticut in the Scranton public library?), and then a final, much smaller “yes” pile for those things she wanted to try.

The first of those was a painting class—Thursday night at 9pm—at the YMCA in room 110. She had already decided she wasn’t going on the booze cruise tonight; why not do something she actually wanted instead?

She spent the next few hours exploring the stacks of the library, signing up for a card (apparently they expired every five years, so the one she’d had as a kid was no good), and resisting the temptation to pile the books up high and bring them home with her. After all, she reasoned sadly, they’d just be back on the shelves if she didn’t read them by the end of the day anyway. She ended up grabbing one romance novel that looked particularly interesting and curling up with it in a comfy chair by the young readers section. Before she knew it, the half hour announcement went that the library was closing, and she realized with a start that it was 8:30. She checked out the book, hopped in the truck (ignoring the missed calls from Roy on her phone) and grabbed drive-through food on the way to the Y.

Scarfing down a taco, she jumped down from the truck and made her way haltingly into the front doors of the YMCA. She’d been in here, of course, because Roy had liked her to come watch him when he’d played in rec league games, and there’d been the occasional yoga session or community meeting across the years. She found room 110 after a little wandering, and hesitated for a moment before turning the knob. The room was full of middle-aged men and women, sprinkled with a couple of bored-looking teens.

“Hello!” A tall, spindly woman greeted her at the door. “Are you here for the painting?”

“Yes?” Pam hated herself for making it a question, but the woman didn’t seem to notice.

“Great! Are you registered?”

“Um…”

“I’ll take that as a no.” The woman laughed merrily. “That’s OK! It’s $15 for the session, but we’ve got plenty of space. That includes materials…since I’m guessing you don’t have a canvas in that little bag.”

Pam smiled back and dug through her purse for the money. “No, I’m afraid I just brought me.”

“That’s all we ask you to bring! I’m Kerry; you are?”

“Pam.”

“Welcome, Pam. Why don’t you go sit over by Melanie?” Kerry pointed at one of the bored-looking teens in the corner. She leaned over conspiratorially. “Don’t let her face fool you—she’s here every week.” Kerry giggled, and Pam found herself unwinding a little. “She’ll help you get set up, if you ask nicely.”

Pam slipped between her chattering fellow students until she was next to Melanie, who managed to look marginally less bored when Pam asked her for help setting the canvas up. They got to chatting, and it turned out that Melanie was a couple years older than she looked—old enough to be classmates with Jim’s sister Larissa, actually, which gave Pam enough conversational ammunition to cover the time until Kerry strode firmly to the front of the classroom and cleared her throat. She spoke very briefly about the purpose of art, and while Melanie rolled her eyes a little and whispered something about how “she always said the same thing” Pam found it surprisingly inspirational. Apparently this was an abstract painting class, and they were supposed to paint “whatever they saw when they closed their eyes.” Pam felt very daring as she leaned towards Melanie and whispered “do we have enough black paint?” When the twenty-year-old tittered she felt a thousand feet tall.

The next hour was a blur, but not in the way that the night had become a blur when she’d done the snorkel shots. Instead, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. By the end of the night she had a fairy literalist interpretation of “what you see when you close your eyes,” but she was proud of the purple strokes and yellow highlights strobing across her canvas. Kerry told them all to take their canvases home and think about how they might change them if they had them to do again and to “make sure and come back next week!” Pam doubted she’d be back next week—but she knew she’d be back again on the same day.

She waved goodbye to Melanie, carefully buckled the canvas into the passenger’s seat of the pickup, and drove home. She didn’t know where else to go—her mom’s was still too far, and it wasn’t like Roy was going to be home yet anyway. She put the canvas up on a nail in the living room, took a shower, and went to bed.

Then she realized that of course Roy was going to come home drunk and probably angry at her for taking the truck, and she didn’t actually want to be in the bed when he got there. So she moved herself into the guest bedroom, thankful for once that Roy’s brother Kenny crashed with them sufficiently frequently that there were already pillows and blankets on the bed, and more thankful that she had put clean sheets on since he’d last stayed. She locked the door—and when had it become an instinct to lock the door against her fiancé?—and bedded down for the night. She did not awake when Roy came home—assuming he ever did.