Pam’s eyes snapped open, as they did every morning, five seconds before her alarm clock went off. Today, she decided as she flipped the alarm off and headed for the shower, she was going to forget all about that stupid booze cruise and the engagement that “didn’t count” and all of it. She was going to disappear: it was time to find out what the hell was so exciting about a shiatsu massage in Stamford, CT that justified its presence in the brochure rack in the Scranton library.

But first, of course, she had to get through the routine of the start of the day. Well, she didn’t, actually, but she was a creature of habit (ironically, she thought, given that she was replaying the day over and over again with variations—maybe next time she’d try letting it all play out the same way it did the first day, just for diversity’s sake). So being formed of the habits she had accumulated over the years, she would go through the morning as she found it, and then make her by-now-also-habitual escape from Dunder Mifflin closer to noon.

The knowledge that she was going to make a run for it later emboldened her in the morning as well. She made pancakes instead of bacon and eggs for breakfast, even though Roy hated pancakes (or at least her pancakes) unless they had chocolate chips in them, which she refused to include. So maybe it was petty. She didn’t care. She made tea instead of coffee too, even though Roy swore he couldn’t wake up from “sissy teas” and needed coffee.

After all, she thought, he wasn’t going to be awake enough to appreciate it.

And indeed, he ran through the house at full speed as usual, gathering their things and barely casting a glance at the kitchen table where the leftover pancakes lay. He didn’t even grab the thermos of tea she’d put out for him. Why did she even bother? Or, more to the point, why hadn’t she thought of this before? Sure, Roy had his preferences, but he was so rarely around to actually take advantage of those preferences, so why should she cater to them? She was the one eating breakfast. She could make her own damn food and drink to suit her. Or…maybe someday someone could make them for her? God knew that wasn’t Roy, but since the whole Roy thing seemed destined to a quick end if she ever got out of this loop, maybe someone else?

She didn’t have time to reflect on that thought; it had actually been a miracle that Roy and the radio were both quiet enough for her to reflect that much in the car. Now she was at work, and it was time to pick something out of the vending machine to annoy Dwight and please Jim.

Now, what would…

Oh.

Oh.

“I feel like a change today,” she said, slotting her coins into the machine as Dwight tried to remonstrate with Jim. Tried being the operative word, since her presence seemed to defang his physicality somehow, almost as if he needed more space to become truly angry and her slipping in beside him deprived him of the option. That was the germ of an idea for a prank actually. She’d have to tell Jim later.

Ca-thunk said the machine, and she was the proud possessor of one Dwight K. Schrute nameplate.

“Pamela! You are not authorized to use the name Dwight K. Schrute for business or personal purposes!”

She was saved from the necessity of replying by Jim. “Ew, Dwight, gross image. Pam doesn’t need your personal purposes.” She giggled, although the image was indeed disgusting. Angela could have all of Dwight’s personal…purposes, thank you very much. Dwight, however, appeared ignorant of what Jim was implying.

“What? I was merely informing Ms. Beesly here that any attempt to pass herself off as Dwight K. Schrute, or indeed any other Schrute, will result in legal action for fraud.”

“Sure you were.”

“I’ll have you know the Schrute name is famous in certain circles, and I will not have a mere Beesly besmirching it.”

“Certain circles?”

“Yes, I…”

“Would those be beet-growing circles, or Nazi circles, Dwight?”

Dwight didn’t seem to notice the dig. “Beet-growing circles, of course: we Schrutes have been well-known as Rübenbauers for years, both in the Old Country and here in Pennsylvania.” He sniffed. “My grandfather the war hero” another sniff “was not a Schrute, since he was my mother’s father.”

“Not a Schrute?” Pam clutched her newly bought prize to her chest. “But you said he was the bravest man you’ve ever known.”

“He was, Pamela.” Dwight drew himself up to his full height: this was less than impressive given that Jim still towered over him and Pam herself was sufficiently short as to make the gesture ridiculous. “Many a time I heard his stories of the Blitzkrieg and…”

Pam decided to interrupt. “But Dwight, doesn’t that mean that being a Schrute makes you less brave?”

Jim leapt on her suggestion, as she’d known he would. “Yes, Dwight,” he nodded sagely. “Pam’s right, you know. Every drop of Schrute blood makes you less like your grandfather.”

Dwight looked like he was going to cry. “Großvater mütterlicherseits,” he whispered to himself and shook his head for a moment. Then he visibly rallied himself before attempting to straighten even further. Unfortunately for him, since he’d already drawn himself up to his full height this had the effect of causing him to bend over the other way, extending himself as if he were going under a limbo bar. “No! He chose my father for my mother himself as the most worthy murmeltierführer in the land. My bloodline is strong!” He snapped at Jim. “Do not insult a Schrute!”

Pam, who had slipped behind Dwight towards the door while he dealt with his personal demons, winked at Jim around Dwight’s bent back. “That’s right, Jim, don’t insult a Schrute.” She opened the door and delivered her parting shot as she ran back to her desk. “After all, I’m Dwight K. Schrute.”

“You are not!” Dwight stuck his head out of the door after here.

“Sure I am! I have the desk plaque to prove it.” All in all, a satisfying prank.

Even more satisfying, because it was more hers, was the prank she outlined for Jim while they waited for Stanley to discern that this was a booze cruise.

“So I just keep moving everything else in the office towards his desk?”

“One at a time, an inch or two at a time, over a few weeks, yes.” As she’d explained, once Dwight found himself hemmed in on all sides he’d want to explode but not have the physical space to do so.

“What about the walls?”

“What about them, Halpert?” She raised a challenging eyebrow and Jim popped a jellybean into his mouth.

“I suppose I could get some sheets of luan from my friend Hank—he works for a theater supply company…” She laughed. “What?”

“Jim, there are no walls around Dwight.” She collapsed into giggles at her desk and Jim looked around before realizing that she was right. He smiled wryly down at her.

“Except the walls around his heart, Pam, except the walls around his heart.”

“Oh, no, I’m pretty sure…” Angela walked in from the annex and Pam changed the topic. “Anyway, we’ll have to move Phyllis’s desk a little, but I don’t think she’d mind, do you?”

He snorted. “I don’t think she’d notice. But no, she wouldn’t mind even if she did.”

“And obviously we’ll have to move the cabinet next to Meredith’s desk, but if we just put in something with a space for her to keep booze in, I don’t think she’ll care.”

“Are you kidding? She’ll probably insist we keep it that way afterwards.”

“Exactly.” They smiled at each other. This feels right, Pam thought. Nothing else in this stupid day goes right, but playing pranks with Jim always feels right. Before she had time to explore the thought further Stanley returned, and Jim went to find out from him about the booze cruise, and it was time for her to sneak out again.

Twenty minutes later she was blowing down the interstate towards Connecticut, listening to the classical station Roy never let her tune to and sipping the large tea she’d gotten from the gas station where she’d filled the truck.

Three hours after that she was stuck in traffic in Stamford, Connecticut, wondering what had made her forget that the drive from Scranton to Stamford would land her in the start of rush hour traffic when she arrived. The shiatsu place was, ironically, across the street from Dunder Mifflin Stamford, and she was waiting for space to open up on the other side of the intersection for her to cross. She knew it was overly defensive driving not to be in the intersection already—Roy would have called her a “pussy”—but she’d been taught that if there wasn’t space, you didn’t go.

Just as the space opened up and she started forward, the giant Mack truck waiting to take a left decided she wasn’t going at all and started its turn. She slammed on the pickup’s brakes, the Mack truck gunned its engine to get past her, and she heard a thump from somewhere to her right. A woman had run out of the doors of Dunder Mifflin Stamford and begun to cross the street just as the truck moved, and in his hurry to avoid Pam the driver hadn’t noticed her at all.

Pam pulled into a parking space on the far side of the intersection, her hand shaking. Someone must have called 9-1-1, because she watched as first the police and then EMTs came and took care of the situation. An officer came over and talked to her—or he must have, but she found she couldn’t remember anything they’d spoken about, other than that he was assuring her she had had the right of way and wasn’t at fault.

“Is the woman going to be OK?” she asked when he was done.

“Her ribs must be made of stone,” came the reply. “She seems OK, but they’ve taken her to Bennett for observation anyway.” He paused. “Did you know her?”

“Oh, we both work for Dunder Mifflin,” she replied before she thought.

“Ah.” Fortunately he didn’t seem inclined to follow up on this. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be happy to have visitors if you wanted to stop by.” He closed by taking the last of her contact information before thanking her for her time and reminding her that she might hear from various insurance companies about the incident. “But for now, you’re free to go.”

She let out a rush of air. She wasn’t going to hear from any insurance companies, she reminded herself. This was all going to reset tomorrow. None of it was permanent, and since it was her presence (or rather, her unwillingness to block the box of the intersection) that had caused the accident, it was unlikely that the other woman would be in any real danger if she didn’t come back to Stamford. Still, it didn’t seem right to just go get a massage. She was already parked, and before she could think any more she found herself out of her car and climbing the stairs to Dunder Mifflin Stamford.

The view was breathtaking, she had to admit, as she stepped up to reception and looked out at the giant picture window with a view of the ocean. She greeted the receptionist by name (the secret network of receptionists at Dunder Mifflin was a strong society) and asked about the woman who’d just left.

“That must be Karen Filippelli. Karen’s good people. You’d like her.” The other receptionist nodded firmly. “Good people.”

“Uh…I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” Pam detailed the accident and that Karen was being taken to the hospital for observation. “If you know her emergency contact…she was apparently stable, but I don’t know what that means or if she could contact anyone or anything.”

“Oh my god! Thank you Pam, I’ll get on that immediately.” The other receptionist was already shuffling through papers. “In the meantime…feel free to use the break room if you need anything or the bathroom or anything like that. Mi branch es su branch.”

Pam smiled, thinking of all the horrific hay Michael Scott could make out of that statement, and slipped out of the office while the other woman was dialing whoever Karen’s emergency contact was.

Karen Filippelli. Maybe she’d pay this “good person” a visit sometime when she wasn’t busy being hit by a truck. After all, she had nothing but time now, and she felt a little responsible: presumably on the previous cycles this woman had been perfectly OK. She ignored the little voice that said she’d be perfectly OK on any future cycles if Pam didn’t interfere, and drove the three hours back to Scranton in a somewhat depressed silence, only made worse because she remembered she’d have to do all of this again tomorrow, with the addition of a booze cruise.

At least with the booze cruise, nothing got hurt but her feelings.