When Pam didn’t come in the next day, Jim was worried.

Scratch that, he was scared.

Scratch that too. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t think it was likely that Pam had done something stupid like let Roy drive and get into a horrible accident, but the idea was just plausible enough that he let himself linger on it for horrifying minutes. What if they were in a wreck? Even with Pam driving, a drunk, loud, large Roy in the truck could spell disaster. What if she was injured? What if she lost her memory? What if she died?

He’d driven Darryl home last night and the warehouse man, who was swiftly if somewhat confusingly becoming a friend, had had just loose enough of a tongue that he’d ended up telling Jim a lot more than he ought to want to know about Roy and Pam. Not more than he wanted to know—he was highly aware that, on the balance, he wanted to know more about Pamela whatever-her-middle-name-was Beesly than was good for him—but more than he ought to want to know. Like how she’d never kicked Roy out of the house (“thank God” slurred Darryl, because he didn’t need Roy on his couch) but she’d had good reason to a couple of times (“maybe three or four,” Darryl had confided in an overly loud whisper as they pulled up to a red light, and it had taken another car honking for Jim to realize when the light had turned green). Or how Darryl, who apparently only got hit with his alcohol when he got in the car, hated dealing with Roy, who got hit by it immediately, and so got into the habit of calling Pam and getting her to drive them both home (“’s great that you’re drinking with us now, Jim! Or rather, not drinking much” he’d added, “since that way we won’t need to bother her anymore” as if dropping a drunken Roy on her doorstep at 2am wouldn’t be a bother).

The pencil in his fingers snapped, and Dwight looked up in disapproval. “Those are company pencils, Jim.”

Jim took the bait with relief, glad to have a distraction. “Am I not part of this company, Dwight?”

Dwight muttered something that might have been “unfortunately” and might have been an obscure German swear word before speaking up more clearly. “Those pencils are intended for writing orders, not snapping in half.”

Jim leaned over his desk towards Dwight’s. “Really?” he said in an artificially treacle-y, bright voice. “Do you have proof of that?” His friends from high school would have known that voice was a warning not to cross him today. Dwight did not. Not yet anyway.

“I don’t need documenta…” Dwight started, but Jim cut him off.

“But you see, Dwight, you do need documentation. Because as far as I can see, this is a Dunder Mifflin pencil, right?” He held up the broken half of the pencil in his right hand, trying not to think about how he was already, on only a few weeks acquaintance and unrequited affection, certain that Pam would have laughed if he’d pointed out that it was technically now just a Mifflin pencil. He did not let that thought slow the pace of his rant enough to let Dwight get a word in edgewise, however. “And I’m a Dunder Mifflin employee.” He gestured at the nameplate on his desk. “So as long as I, a Dunder Mifflin employee,” he gestured again “am making use of this Dunder Mifflin equipment,” he tossed the two halves of the pencil on the desk in front of him, “then it strikes me that the pencil is doing its job. Does it matter if it’s the job that the pencil was originally designed for? Of course not. After all, there’s a piece of Dunder Mifflin paper leveling out the corner of my desk, and that’s not what the paper was intended for. There’s a Dunder Mifflin coffee mug holding my other, unbroken pencils, and that’s not what the mug was meant for. There’s even a Dunder Mifflin sweatshirt in the break room that we all use as hot pads when taking our food out of the microwave, and God knows that’s not what the sweatshirt was invented for. So tell me, Dwight Kurt Schrute, exactly where does it say I, in my infinite Dunder Mifflin employeeness can’t break this Dunder Mifflin pencil if I’m feeling just a little bit on edge?”

A hand came down on his shoulder and he realized he was breathing heavily. A voice that he slowly recognized as Michael’s came floating over the hand.

“OK, Jimbo, I think we all get the point.” He turned and Michael smiled weakly at him. “Just don’t break Dwight, OK? He’s a Dunder Mifflin employee too.”

“I’m the Assistant…” Dwight started.

“Not now, Dwight.” This was the most professional Jim had ever seen Michael, and it took the air out of his frustration.

“Sorry, Michael.” He turned to Dwight. “Sorry, Dwight. I’m just a little on edge today.”

Dwight made a noise that a generous soul might have interpreted as an acceptance of the apology and a more reasonable one might have taken as meaning “don’t do it again.” Michael gripped Jim’s shoulder a little harder. “Jimbo, you and I are going to go to lunch now,” he declared. “And we’ll get to the bottom of this. I can’t have my top salesman being on edge, now can I?”

“But Michael, I’m your…” Dwight attempted to interrupt.

“Not. Now. Dwight.” Jim let himself be maneuvered out the double doors, Dwight’s last plaintive attempt to enforce the rules—a muted cry of “but it’s only 10:30!”—floating behind them.

Lunch with Michael was not as bad as he’d expected. Once he was out of the office and away from Dwight—and the awareness of Pam’s absence like a missing tooth—he’d calmed down, and Michael’s obliviousness to the reason he’d been on edge was, surprisingly, the balm his soul had needed. Michael just kept burbling away about sales targets and creative repurposing of office supplies and Jim couldn’t help but smile. He was smiling a little less when Michael tried to pick up the Applebees waitress, but even that was ridiculous enough (and squashed quickly and firmly enough) that he couldn’t help but be amused. Michael was, for all his inappropriate ideas, trying very hard to be a good boss, and Jim found himself appreciating it. By the time they got back to the office, he was almost in a good mood.

That all evaporated, however, when he noticed the presence of a midsize pickup truck in the Dunder Mifflin parking lot when Michael pulled them back up to the office.