“Schrute Farms” is far too much of a coincidence to be, well, a coincidence. This has to be where that strange man that Jim described as their only regular lives and works. It just has to be. As she clicks through the images on the listing she becomes more and more concerned for the man—she could tell from the drink order he was deranged, but the way the property is described and the sheer number of “original” (read: dilapidated) elements on the property suggest that he may simply be insane, possibly from drinking the water in the “original, unfiltered well” on the property.

Also, the price on the place is ridiculously low, even for a rental. Even for an insane property like this one.

Or, maybe not. Because she realizes as she reads further into the description that this is not a case of someone who has decided to carry on a weird family tradition of beet farming and then given up and decided to rent the place out to whoever will take it. It’s not a case of someone who has drunk well water and lost all their marbles, either.

It’s a case of someone who is deeply, deeply wrong about what Zillow is.

Like, fundamentally, deeply misunderstanding.

Because Dwight Kurt Schrute (she wonders which of the two men occasionally visible in the photos on the site he is, and decides it really does not matter because they’re equally distressing as options) is not trying to rent out his beet farm on Zillow to anyone who wants to live there.

He’s trying to use Zillow to find hotel guests.

That ridiculously low rent is per night, not per month. It’s actually a reasonable per-night rate, if you forget what it is you’re renting per night or the fact that again, you are on Zillow.

She debates for a moment whether this is a cry for help, or whether someone just simply did not inform him of what Zillow was. She decides, after reading the pompous and self-importantly bloated property description again, that it’s neither. Dwight Schrute seems to think this is innovative, original, and brilliant of him.

He thinks he’s moving into a new market space no one has tapped yet.

Has he never heard of Expedia or Priceline or even Hotels.com?

Heck, Hotwire would probably be his best bet, since people there don’t get to see the property they’re choosing, and no one in their right mind is going to choose to live at Schrute Farms, where the biggest bed she can see is probably a twin extra-long, and several of them are smaller.

Where the “five bathrooms” are one modern facility and four outhouses—one all the way in the beet fields.

Where the “spacious outdoor exercise space” is literally another beet field, with the text promising that “pulling beets is not only nutritious, but good cardiovascular exercise for children as young as eight!”

Where the promised “morning food service” (is this his way of calling it a bed and breakfast?) appears to consist solely of beet-derived items, with the exception of “homemade milk.”

She really, really, really does not want to know what differentiates it from normal milk, especially as she didn’t see any cows on the property.

On the other hand, she really, really does, as long as she doesn’t need to be the one actually doing the finding out.

She glances up from the screen, which she has been focused on in horrified fascination for what turns out to be much longer than she’d thought, and once again notices Jim’s eyes are on her.

This time instead of flushing and turning away, she gestures him over.

“What can I do for you?” He saunters out from behind the counter, and while it was one thing to see him from the slight separation of the counter and realize how tall he was and how much she liked that, it’s totally another to be seated and have him looming over her. “Need a refill?”

“Uh…sure.” The thing is, she’s really not good at talking to guys she finds attractive. She has no practice being chill or suave or interesting to them, and even though she’s not interested in actually dating right now it would be nice to be at least one of those things towards the one guy she’s at least attracted to that she’s seen since Roy. She was always the nerdy, artsy girl in school and never talked to those kinds of guys except Roy, and then Roy was always jealous so she never talked much to them after (not that she saw all that many of them then either). So she’s deeply out of practice, if she ever was in practice, and while she thinks they had some good chemistry at the checkout register, she’s probably fooling herself. “Cool.”

That was perhaps the dumbest thing she could have said.

Before he can turn away and go make her another drink, though, she remembers through her haze of attraction-fueled panic that that’s not why she called him over.

God, he came when she called, didn’t he? Wait, that’s just called being in the service industry, don’t read anything into that Pam, it’s creepy.

Right. The thing.

“Did you say your regular was named Dwight Schrute?”

“Yes?” The look on his face says as plain as day that he did not expect Dwight Schrute to come up again in their conversation—even if she hasn’t known him very long, she can read that loud and clear.

“Does he by any chance own a farm called, imaginatively enough, Schrute Farms?”

“Yes? That’s what the barrel of beet juice says, anyway.”

“A barrel?” She almost gets sidetracked by that oddity but soldiers on. “Nevermind. Did you know you can rent Schrute Farms? Like, I’d say as a hotel or bed and breakfast or something, but it’s here on Zillow.”

“What?” He crouches down next to her and it’s all she can do not to breathe in the scent of him like a creeper or something. “You have absolutely got to show me, please,” he asks with surprising urgency.

So she does.