Dwight loved the cellar. It wasn't just the earthy smells or the presence of his grandfather's heirloom plastic katanas on the Wall of Honor. It wasn't just the mystery of all those locked trunks with the names of all his dead relatives, waiting under wax seals for the day when the hundredth anniversary of their owner's death rolled around and they could be opened. No, it was something humbler that made him feel safe and secure: his mother's beets.

The pantry shelves were made of plain 1 x 10 planking; he'd helped his father put them up when Dwight was still too young to operate a power nailer safely. He'd watched in fascination as his father clicked the trigger -- bam bam bam -- and shot the two inch nails through the boards. In hindsight, Dwight thought that a simple hammer and nails would have been more efficient, and perhaps his father's choice of a nail gun had been an early sign of the Alzheimer's that eventually led to his life in the attic, but still, it warmed Dwight's heart to remember that moment of father/son bonding.

(His father used to hum while he worked. Never the same tune twice, never a tune he could name. Maybe it was something his father made up as he went along. All his life, Dwight had tried to hum the same tune but never got it quite right. Sometimes he would dream that he was singing along with his father, loud and bright in the sunshine, back in the days when his father had been healthy and tall, before The Accident. But then when Dwight woke up, the tune was gone and no matter how much time he spent with his recorder, he couldn't recapture it.)

And of course, carrying the jars of pickled beets down to the cellar had been fun, because it was fraught with danger. Dwight would load up his arms with glass jars of pickled beets still warm from the canning kettle, and would ease down the stairs from the kitchen. The steps were weak, and the third one from the top was cracked. One misstep, and Dwight might tumble to the bottom in a blizzard of smashed glass. If he was really quiet, he'd see a mouse scurrying back to its hole and would note its direction so he could track it later with his crossbow. But for now he would concentrate on the steps, taking them one at a time.

(The stairs would creak and bend. Just like in those horror movies where some fool hears a noise in the basement and decides to investigate alone. Even as a boy, Dwight had nothing but contempt for someone who would go into a dark place like that unarmed. At the very least, one should carry nunchucks.)

He filled the shelves carefully, starting at the bottom and working his way up. He could always tell whether the beet harvest had been good or bad by his mother's canning. In good years, there were dozens of jars of large, red beets sitting in their blood-colored pickling brine, gleaming under the light of the single electric bulb as if they had captured sunlight. In bad years, there were a few pint jars of scrawny-looking roots in pale liquid, looking like body parts preserved in formaldehyde (like the two-headed pig fetus his Aunt Tamar kept in her parlor). But no matter what kind of year there had been, there were beets and that meant there would be food all winter.

He had never really believed the old family legend that in lean times, the Schrutes ate their offspring. Dwight had no younger siblings, so sometimes that story made him nervous.

(Mose had had a sister two years younger, but one summer she got sick and then disappeared and Dwight never did find out what happened to her. Mose said she was in an iron lung in Philadelphia, but Dwight thought maybe she lived under the barn. There were noises down there late at night that could not be adequately explained by rats or raccoons.)

The other thing Dwight liked about the cellar was the photo collection. It had started in the 1920s, when one of his ancestors had nailed up a fading photograph of himself standing next to a horse-drawn harrow that had maimed his hand. The year after, someone had put up a picture of his great-great-grandmother as a little girl, astride the plow horse that, five years later, threw her and broke her shoulder. Then there was the photograph of a crushed Studebaker, upside down in the creek, with his great-great-uncle Silvanus standing on crutches beside it. And, of course, the famous shot of his grandfather haughtily exhibiting the stump of his arm next to the thresher that had mangled it. The old man's contempt for a mere machine that had dared to attack him came through loud and clear.

Upstairs, in the walnut-paneled parlor, there were many silver-framed pictures of Dwight's family. They were carefully posed, formal, iconic. They were for visitors. This gallery in the cellar was private, for family only, for people who knew and understood and would not be ... dismayed ... by them. Picture after picture of accidents, disasters, calamities, all of them with the survivor sitting or standing proudly. Every time Dwight suffered a setback, a humiliation, a failure, he would come down here to the family's secret shrine to triumph. No adversity was too great, no catastrophe too dire, for a Schrute. They soldiered on, legless, armless, blind, deaf, crazy. Nothing stopped a Schrute.

On a day like today, as he looked over the contents of his own death trunk, he felt safe and secure, surrounded by these proofs of love and survival. He rummaged through the open trunk, shifting high school yearbooks, shooting trophies, and several rusty daggers around in his trunk. He made a note to tell Mose to be sure to put his Dundies in this trunk when he died. He would have put them in already, but he enjoyed having them on the shelf above his bed. It gave him a warm feeling to look up at night and see proof of Michael Scott's affection and respect above his head.

(Dwight heard a scurrying sound in a corner and wondered if Angela would let him have one of her kittens to train into a warrior cat. Probably not. She was squeamish about the strangest things.)

"Ah, here it is!" he muttered. He reached into the trunk and brought out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string in fifty or sixty intricate knots. Patiently, he untied each one of them. He could have sliced through the twine with any one of the sharp implements hanging on the wall of the cellar, but that would have been disrespectful to the younger version of himself who had tied all these knots. It took him over an hour, but he persisted. Dwight prided himself on his dogged tenacity. It was a Schrute family trait.

Finally, the twine fell away and the brown wrapping paper fell open and there they were: small, white, curved, delicate. The bones gleamed in the dim light as if they were lit from within. He carried them carefully over to the small workbench and set them down in a cleared space. He picked each one up carefully and set it on a clean cloth. He reached into his pocket and brought out a silk handkerchief; no other material would do. One at a time, he polished the bones to a high sheen. He hummed to himself (his father's tune? Not quite. Close, though.).

He'd never been sure what it was. He'd shot it with a bow and arrow just after his eighth birthday, on a late summer morning down by the creek. Larger than a cat, smaller than a German shepherd or werewolf. He turned the skull this way and that, held it up to the light. Incisors like a rat, but molars like an herbivore. Not a raccoon; he still had the tanned hide on the wall of his bedroom and its brown-on-tan stripes were not those of a raccoon. It wasn't an opossum or a small fox, not a badger or marmoset. No one in his family, an extensive tribe of hunters, could identify it. Which made him proud. He, Dwight Kurt Schrute, had slain the Unnameable.

Tradition dictated that on his wedding day, he would present his bride with proof of his ability to defend and feed her. Until now, the most talked-about wedding trophy had been his great-grandfather's presentation of a buffalo skeleton, fully articulated, to his first wife. No male since then had killed any animal quite that impressive. But soon, Dwight would trump every generation of Schrutes at one fell swoop; he would present his bride with the most unusual, most powerful trophy ever given a Schrute female.

Even if he didn't know what it was.

The late afternoon sun slanted in through the high, narrow windows on the west. The beets glowed in the sun, red as life, red as love. Dust motes danced in the air, and the air smelled of earth and roots and old sawdust. Dwight polished the skull of his bridal gift and smiled.

Soon it would be time to dig a grave for his beloved.

"'Lo?" A sleepy, annoyed voice.

"Kenny, it's Roy."

"Wha..? What the fuck, bro? It's ... three in the morning!"

"I need help, Kenny. I'm in jail."

"What? Jesus, Roy, you -- No, honey, go back to sleep. It's Roy. -- What happened? Oh, God. You didn't go after that Jim guy--"

"No. DUI again."

"But...you were fine when we left Poor Richard's!"

"I stopped at a liquor store on the way home." He rubbed his eyes with one hand, feeling sand under his eyelids. "Look, can you get down here with some bail money?"

"Uh. You know I had to lay out the jet ski money to fix the thing at Poor Richard's?"

"Yeah. I only need five hundred dollars."

"Only? Jesus, Roy...Look, let me call Dad--"

"No!" It burst out of him. Roy slid a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, looked down at his orange jail jumpsuit. "No, for God's sake don't tell Dad. It'll kill Mom."

On the other end of the phone, Kenny sighed. Roy imagined him running his hand over his head, thought about him lying in bed next to his sleeping wife. He missed sleeping next to Pam. He'd actually thought he could get that back--

"Look, I ain't got the money, bro," Kenny said. "Maybe you could call Darryl?"

"I don't want anyone at work finding out about this," Roy said.

"Time's up," said the burly deputy next to him. He reached out a hand for the receiver.

"I gotta go, Kenny," Roy said. "I need $500, bro."

"I'll see what I can do," Kenny said. He hung up.

Roy handed the phone to the deputy, who took his arm and steered him back into line. Roy hated being manhandled, but resisted the urge to jerk away. It would just get him in more trouble.

Another prisoner in an orange jumpsuit stepped forward to the phone. Roy closed his eyes, wishing his headache would go away. Wishing it all would go away, wishing he was back where he was last year, on Lake Wallenpaupack setting a date with Pam. Had Halpert been hitting on her even then? He felt the slow tide of rage rising in him and took a deep breath. Not now.

Roy heard Pam's voice in his head. He told me how he felt, and I guess I had feelings too, and we kissed. God. How could she do this to him? And Halpert...Halpert had lied. Said he'd been over his "crush" on Pam. Said it was all in the past. Said they were "just friends".

How could he have been so stupid, to believe that? His head hurt and he wished he had some aspirin.

"Let's go," the deputy called. Roy opened his eyes.

The guy on his left nudged him. "You heard him, man."

Roy turned and followed the two guys ahead of him, shuffling in his jail-issued flip-flops. He hated wearing the things anyway, and these were one size too small; they were wearing a blister between his toes. All the prisoners were wearing day-glow orange jumpsuits; his was half a size too small and chafed him under the arms and at his crotch. He wondered if any of them would swap with him, so he could get a larger size. He decided not to suggest it.

They shuffled down the gray cinder block corridor to the end, waited while a door was unlocked, went through, waited while it was locked behind them. The air smelled of sweat and Lysol and anger. Dimly he heard banging sounds up ahead, shouts and laughter. Would Kenny be able to scare up the bail money? Would he go to their parents for it? He knew Kenny and Louise didn't have that much money, what with the twins and all. Shame joined the rage chasing his headache round and round in his skull. Another locked door, another wait, and then they passed through into a large room.

Cinder block walls, a high ceiling. Windows with wire mesh embedded in the glass, high up under the ceiling, higher than a man could jump. A line of bunk beds against one wall, and three concrete picnic "tables" with benches against the other. Three metal toilets set under the windows, a sink, and a stainless steel shower (no curtain) in the corner. No privacy. Hot. And it stank. One of the toilets had overflowed. Roy felt his stomach turning. He remembered throwing up already (on his clothes, the arresting officer's shoes, and his truck's front seat), so he didn't think he actually had anything in his stomach, but he didn't want to prove himself wrong.

The door slammed behind him and he turned. It was metal, with a small window. The glass had mesh embedded in it. He saw the guard's face in it, then the face went away. He heard the thunk of locks shooting home.

The group he'd arrived with split up immediately. Roy watched as the two men who had been ahead of him joined three men on the bunks. The other two men sat down on a concrete picnic table with other men who looked like they might be gang members. That left Roy standing next to a young, heavily tattooed guy.

The young guy looked at him. "Hey." There were bruises on his face.

Roy nodded at him, dismayed--was this kid old enough to be locked up with the adults? He looked about sixteen.

"Got a smoke?" the younger man said. He'd rolled the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit up, revealing heavily tattooed forearms. "I'm gonna shit if I don't get a smoke soon."

"Sorry," Roy said.

"I'll blow you for one, if you want," the younger man said casually.

Shocked, Roy said, "No. And I don't smoke anyway."

The younger man shrugged. "Whatever." He shuffled over and sat cross-legged on the concrete floor.

Roy looked at the men on the bunks, then the men on the picnic tables. Nobody looked back, yet he could feel the hostility radiating off of them. He'd seen this kind of aggression before; it didn't have to have any kind of cause, it was just there. Angry men locked up together lashed out at any target. He didn't want to join either of the groups against the walls.

Reluctantly, he sat down on the floor next to the younger man, in the center of the big room. Someone on the bunks said something in a low voice he didn't catch, though he caught the mocking, nasty tone. Catcalls followed. Roy looked away, avoiding eye contact. He didn't want a fight. Not with these guys, anyway.

"First time?" the kid said.

"Nah, been here once before. But they put me in a smaller room."

The kid nodded, looking across the room at the bunks. "On Friday nights they like to fill this one up first."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. One of the guys from the bunks got up and used the toilet, flushed, sat down again. The sound of banging, shouting and laughter filtered in from other cells.

"Dan," the younger man said.

"What?"

"My name is Dan."

"Oh. I'm Roy."

"What are you in for?"

"DUI."

"Sucks."

"Yeah." Roy stretched his legs out, unkinking them. Sitting on the hard concrete hurt his ass. "What about you?"

"Assault."

Roy looked over at him, seeing the bloody knuckles, the scrape along one cheek, the purple bruises almost hidden under the tattoos. "What happened?"

"Guy got between me and my girl."

Roy nodded. "I get that." Boy, did he get that. "You take him out?"

Silence.

Guess not, Roy thought. Kid probably got his ass kicked. "Don't get mad, but, uh, how old are you?"

Dan looked at him for the first time. His shock of black hair stood up in spikes all over his head, and his pale skin contrasted with the swollen left eye, blue as summer skies. "I'm nineteen. Why?"

"No reason. You don't look your age."

"You a chicken hawk?"

Roy scowled. "No," he said shortly.

Dan shrugged. "Whatever. A lot of guys in here roll that way, especially for a younger guy."

"You...let them...?"

Dan laughed shortly, a bitter sound. He waved a hand at the mutually antagonistic groups on either side of the room. "Let them? How do you think I buy protection? These guys would chew me up and spit me out."

It dawned on Roy that, by sitting down with Dan, he'd inadvertently told the room that he was Dan's 'protector'. Which meant they thought that he and Dan... He felt his face go hot. "Hey, I didn't say anything about--"

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Dan said wearily. "I ain't hittin' on you."

"Damn right you're not!" Roy said.

Dan nodded to the men ranged around the room. "Don't yell at me. Tell it to them."

Great, Roy thought. As if he didn't have enough troubles. Last time he'd been arrested, they'd put him in a smaller room, with three other guys. This gay thing hadn't even come up. He didn't like it. He didn't need this.

"Shit," he muttered, putting his face in his hands.

"Don't do that," Dan hissed.

Roy jerked his head up. "What?"

"Don't cry. That's like blood in the water."

"I'm not crying."

"Oh. Well, it looked like you were. Bad idea."

"Well, I'm not."

"Don't even let them think--"

"I said I'm not crying," Roy said loudly. Kid was working his last nerve.

"And keep it down! You don't want to attract attention."

"Shut up," Roy said. "I don't want to hear any more of this."

"Just trying to help, man." Dan stared at his bare feet, picking his toenails in silence.

Where the hell was Kenny?

Roy sat with his knees drawn up, forearms on his knees, chin on his arms. His headache began to fade, but his stomach was growling with hunger. He replayed the scene in Poor Richard's over and over; Pam telling him I guess I had feelings too and we kissed. She guessed she had feelings for Jim Halpert? How long had she had them? What had those two been doing behind his back? He burned, thinking of Pammy in Halpert's arms, of him kissing her, doing more.

He squeezed his hands together, trying to shut out those pictures in his head. A distraction—he needed a distraction. "Uh. Look, I didn't mean to be rude just now. I was just...it's been a hell of a night."

Dan looked up at him. The swelling around his eye was so bad Roy winced. "You hit anyone? With your car?"

"Nah. Ran off the road into a ditch. Cop was on my ass, busted me right away."

"They might let you go with a fine, then. Where's your car now?"

"Cop said he was towing my truck."

Dan nodded. "Good. Sometimes they leave it, you come back the next day it's gone. What kind of truck?"

"2006 Dodge Ram."

Another nod. "Good wheels."

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Saving up for one. My bud's got an '03 Silverado he'll let me have cheap."

"V6 or V8?"

"It's got the V8. And the new electrical system. Good ride." Dan sighed. "I wanted to take Cynthia -- my girl -- away in it."

"She getting bail for you?" Roy asked.

Dan shrugged. "I doubt it. Her boyfriend -- the guy who clocked me -- keeps her on a tight leash."

Her boyfriend? Wait a minute. "She's with someone else?"

"They been together a long time. But she wants out, and he won't let her go, so..." Dan shrugged.

Roy scowled. "You mean they were going together and you broke them up?" He was feeling a lot less sympathy for Dan than he had been a few moments ago.

"Nah, it's not like that, man. She wants out. She doesn't want him any more. But he won't let her go. I mean, what is she, his fucking property? So I drove over to help her move out, take her to her mom's, you know? And he comes home early and starts whaling on me."

"Did she tell him she wanted out?"

"Yeah. He wasn't listening." Dan looked at him with dull eyes. "You know what? I didn't give a shit about her boyfriend. I was all about what she wanted, hey?"

That stopped Roy cold. "She..."

"She wants out, man. She wants me, not him. And he can't let go of that. So fucking pathetic."

"Still, if she wanted out, why not get out? Why cheat on her guy with you?"

"She tried. He hit her and brought her back. Far as I care, he wasn't her guy."

The hell he wasn't. "Did she make him a promise?" Roy said, his voice thickening with anger.

"Yeah. And then she met me. It happens," the boy said strongly. He looked Roy in the eye, unafraid. "Hey, they weren't married. Look, man, she can't help how she feels. Neither can I. It is what it is, you know? And her boyfriend getting pissed about it isn't going to make any difference."

"Still—"

"What is she supposed to do? Stay with a guy she doesn't love? Marry him? Have kids? That ain't right. No way that's right."

"Then she should be up front with the guy."

Dan let out a bitter chuckle. "She's afraid of him. Afraid he'll hurt her."

"So cheating works better?" Roy could hear the anger in his voice, saw the men on either side of the room turning to look at them. He didn't care.

"What the hell is it to you?" Dan sounded annoyed.

Roy opened his mouth for an angry retort. And heard It is what it is.

Suddenly the anger turned bitter, turned sour, turned into fear. It shocked through him like a cold shower. He sighed, collapsing in on himself, subsiding. He stared at his feet in the worn flip-flops. A low chuckle sounded from the wall at his left; he ignored it.

"What's up?" Dan said, frowning.

And suddenly it was just too much to carry by himself any more. Roy had always been a team player, always relied on the guys or his family or, or Pam to help him carry the weight of his own emotions. And now he was on his own and he couldn't do it. It was all too much to carry alone. He glanced over at Dan. The boy was looking at his hands, twisted together. Broken, chewed nails.

Strangely, the thought came to him. This guy understands.

"I .. I think my girlfriend was cheating on me," Roy said in a low voice. It was the most painful thing he'd ever said to a stranger. Shame flooded through him, but he refused to back away.

"Yeah?"

Roy drew in a long, shaky breath. "Yeah. We ... we work at the same company, and there was this guy, a salesman. Long story. Anyway, we were gonna get married, me and Pam. Then, a month before the big day, she calls it off."

"Harsh."

"Yeah, and this was back in May, you know? May, for crissakes."

"She didn't tell you about this other guy?"

"Not a word. Until tonight, after I bust my ass for months trying to get her back, she goes and tells me she and this other guy..." Roy couldn't finish for the rage choking his throat.

"So you beat the shit out of him." Dan flipped his feet up and down, watching the sandals flap against the concrete.

"Not yet. That's the plan," Roy growled.

"And you think that's gonna make her leave him and come back to you?"

"No, the thing is, they're not together. In fact, the guy--his name is Jim--he's dating some other woman completely."

"No shit?" Dan looked skeptical. "That doesn't make sense. If they're not hooked up, why'd she tell you what she did?"

Roy shrugged. "No idea."

Dan pursed his lips, looking away. "Women."

"Yeah."

Dan cracked his knuckles, winced. "So. What are you gonna do now?"

"Kill the bastard."

"Well, yeah. Like you said. But I mean, do you want her back?"

"I--." Roy stopped. Did he want Pam back? "I don't know."

Dan shook his head. "Man, some chick ditches me, I wouldn't want her wandering ass back. Not after what, ten months?"

Roy looked over at him. "You got into a fight over your girl."

"She didn't ditch me and then lay shit like that on me ten months later."

"You think your girl wants this other guy? Is that why she hasn't left him?"

Dan stared at the wall morosely. "I don't know."

"You still want her?"

Dan was silent so long Roy figured he wasn't going to answer, then he said, very softly. "Yeah."

"How many times has this guy beat you up?" Roy asked.

Dan shrugged, his thin shoulders rising and falling under the orange jumpsuit. "Few times."

"And you keep going back for her."

"Yeah."

Roy looked at his hands, slowly formed them into fists. "Even if he keeps messing you up like he has?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

The boy looked at him out of smouldering eyes. "'Cause I love her. Duh. I ain't gonna quit on that."

Roy thought he was like that. He wasn't going to quit on Pam. But she's already quit on me, he thought. Twice.

The door behind them clanged open. All heads turned to see who was coming in. One of the deputies, the bald one, came through and gestured at Roy. Relief flooded through him as he stood.

"Looks like your bail money came," Dan said.

Roy looked at him, still sitting hunched on the floor. He looked over at the two groups of hostile prisoners, looking from him to the boy. He realized that the boy would be alone in here if he left.

"Hey, you gonna be okay?" Roy asked.

"Let's go, Anderson," the deputy called.

"I'll be okay." Dan looked away, squaring his shoulders. Roy saw another bruise on his arm, peeking out from under the rolled up sleeve.

He walked over to the deputy. "My brother's here?"

"Yeah, let's go."

"Can I, uh, can I post bail for that guy?" He nodded toward the younger man.

The deputy looked from Roy to Dan and back again. Roy felt himself growing hot at the cynical look but said nothing. He told himself it didn't matter what this guard thought.

"Depends. We'll see." He nodded at the door and Roy went through. He waited while the guard locked the cell again.

"That guy, Dan..." Roy said.

"He your boyfriend now?" The guard smirked at him.

Roy felt his hands curving into fists and forced them to relax. "Those guys are gonna mess him up," he said.

The guard shrugged. "We'll keep an eye on him."

Helpless, Roy followed the guard down the hall, through several doors, until they arrived in a room with tables and chairs and a guy sitting behind a desk with a computer. Kenny stood up as Roy came in.

"Hey, bro."

The guard motioned at Roy, and he sat down at a table with Kenny. At another table, a large Hispanic woman spoke rapid Spanish to a man in an orange jumpsuit. She was crying.

"Kenny. You got the money?"

Kenny nodded, looking unhappy. "Look, Louise and me, we don't have that kind of money."

"I know," Roy said. "But you didn't have to go to Dad, did you?"

His brother shook his head slowly. "Look, you aren't gonna like this, but it was all I could think of."

"What did you do? You ... you didn't talk to ... you didn't go to Pam, did you?" Roy felt his breath come short. God, anything but that.

"No. I ... I let them put a lien on your truck."

Roy's jaw clenched. He'd just made the last payment on that truck. "Is it ... is it enough?"

Kenny nodded. "Yeah. But if they give you a fine and you can't pay it, you'll lose the truck."

Roy looked down at his hands, wondering if this night could get any worse. First Pam hits him with that bad, bad news. Then he gets drunk and winds up in the tank, and now he might lose the truck. And tomorrow he'd get hit with another fine for DUI. Damn.

And then he thought of a thin-faced young man sitting hunched in the middle of a cold room, surrounded by hostile stares. A boy--no, a man--who loved a girl who belonged to someone else. Who'd suffered for her and would suffer again. And something curiously compassionate stirred in Roy Anderson.

He remembered Dan saying, She wants me, not him. And he can't let go of that.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, Kenny, how much of a lien did you get?"

Kenny scratched his head. "Anything up to a couple thousand."

"There's a guy I met. Inside. He, uh, he shouldn't be in there. I'd like to help him out."

Kenny looked at him blankly. "Roy? You barely got the money for this. And then there's the fine. What are you doing?"

"Guy needs a break," Roy said roughly. "He'll pay me back." Well, maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't. Roy didn't want to examine this idea too closely.

"Do you even know this guy? Is he running some kind of jailhouse con on you?"

Roy shrugged. "I don't care. Just find out if we can bail him out."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"What's his name?" Kenny stood, frowning.

"Dan. He's in for assault."

"That's all you know?"

"Yeah." Roy balled his fists, willing himself not to feel like an idiot.

"I'll see." Kenny shuffled over to the man behind the desk with the computer. He sat down and started a conversation in low tones.

Roy sat and looked at his hands. He thought about smashing Jim Halpert's face with them. That's what he'd been thinking when he left Poor Richard's, when he stopped in at the liquor store. But now ... now he saw Pam's face when she told him I guess I had feelings too, and we kissed.

She'd waited ten months to tell him. Why? Was she afraid of him? What kind of guy was he, that his own Pammy was afraid of him? Was this the guy he wanted to be?

He remembered the sound of her voice when she said I had feelings too. It didn't really matter what Halpert felt for Pam. With a sinking feeling, a feeling of finality, Roy Anderson realized that it was over. It no longer had anything to do with Jim Halpert. It had to do with Pam.

She wants me, not him. And he can't let go of that.

Roy opened his hands, palm up, and looked at them. Calloused, big, muscular. Sure, he could take Jim Halpert apart like a cheap toy. And Pam still wouldn't want him, Roy. She wasn't his any more. He wasn't hers, either.

Roy felt the burning in his eyes that said he might be close to tears. And he absolutely was not going to do that here, not here.

Kenny sat down across from him and pushed a piece of paper across the table at him. "That's the lien. Sign it and we'll be out of here."

Roy picked up the pen. "What about Dan?"

"They're doing the paperwork now. Roy, you sure about this? I mean, you don't even know this guy."

Yeah, Roy thought. He didn't know Dan. But he and Dan understood something in common, even if they understood it from opposite sides of the fence. In some ways, Dan understood him better than Kenny.

He signed the paper. Kenny took it away.

He wondered if it was smart, helping this guy Dan steal another man's girl. Then he remembered Dan saying She doesn't want him any more. But he won't let her go.

Yeah, he knew how that went. He looked at his hands again. He made slow fists, released them, clenched his hands again.

She'd said, I guess I had feelings too. Which meant, she didn't have feelings for him any more. And his fists wouldn't change her mind.

Roy opened his hands. Maybe it was time to let go.

It started when Oscar deleted the wrong file right before the deadline for submitting the sales tax figures to Corporate. Angela hated inefficiency and waste, even more so when the perpetrator was as insolent and unrepentant as Oscar Martinez. Worse, when she insisted that Oscar stay to clean up his mistake, he became surly and said he had a doctor's appointment he could not reschedule. That left her and Kevin to scramble to rebuild the spreadsheet and send it to Corporate by 6:00 PM. By the time Kevin (useless as he was) had shambled out, it was dark outside and Angela was alone in the office.

Putting on her coat, she was very aware of the shadows stealing in from the corners. She started to go into the bathroom before heading home, but when she pushed through the doors to the kitchen/bathroom area, she saw that the lights were completely out both there and in the Human Resources area beyond. For no reason at all, her heart began to beat faster. She decided she could wait until she was safe at home.

Locking up, the jingle of her keys echoed in the empty corridor outside Dunder-Mifflin. The lonely sound completely erased any lingering pride she felt at having an authorized key to the office. Waiting for the elevator, she found herself listening for the sounds of other people in the building – a distant murmur, a laugh, a footstep. She heard only the impersonal whine of machinery. As the elevator doors closed behind her, she felt the beginning of that suffocating, smothered feeling.

Deep breaths. Remember what the doctor said. Deep breaths. Relax.

Angela closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. There was nothing to worry about. There was no one lurking outside the door of the elevator, ready to pounce as soon as she stepped out. There was no one waiting around the bend in the corridor with an axe dripping with blood. No one had tampered with the elevator cables, dooming her to a long, shrieking fall to her death...

The elevator doors slid open suddenly and Angela let out a tiny shriek. She stood trembling, her eyes darting wildly, until the elevator doors began to slide shut again. Then she stuck her hand between the doors, and the bumpers tapped her wrist before sliding the doors open again. Gingerly she emerged into the corridor. Why did the building management insist on timers that turned off most of the hall lighting after 6:00? It was unsafe. She should complain to the building management.

Naturally, the parking lot was dark, cold and empty. The pink glare of the overhead lights only made it seem more lonely than it was. And of course, her car was parked on the far side. Angela was acutely aware of the click-click of her sensible heels on the asphalt.

Don't run. They'll chase you.

She forced herself to slow down. This was not a nightmare. It was not a horror movie. It was just a parking lot on a Tuesday night in Scranton. Don't get melodramatic. She heard her mother's dismissive tone echoed in her own head.

It took her forever to fumble her keys out of her purse. Her hand shook so badly she dropped them. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, stinging and drawing tears. A car drove by slowly in the street -- too slowly, she thought. Her pulse quickened. When she finally got the door open and slid behind the wheel, her breath was coming in gasps.

Home. Have to get home. Safe at home.

She drove carefully through the dark streets. Image after image cascaded through her overheated imagination: a flat tire, a carjacker, a suicide jumping in front of her car, someone sideswiping her. Images that left her stranded in the dark, helpless. She tried to dismiss them from her mind, but it took more than will power.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...

Usually prayer soothed her, but now, creeping along streets slick with re-freezing snowmelt, the words sounded desperate and scared. She rolled to a stop at a red light. There were no other cars around; the streets looked ominous and deserted, as if waiting for a horde of zombies or monsters to surge around a corner and surround her little car. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles were white.

Suddenly a car slid to a stop beside hers. She heard the fuzzy boom of an over-amped bass, heard male laughter from the car. Don't look at them if they see you looking they'll look back and then they'll see you. If you don't look, they can't see you please please please turn green.

Finally the light turned green and the car beside hers squealed across the intersection with an arrogant screech. The car fishtailed on ice, slid into the oncoming lane, righted itself, and sped off. Angela crept across in its wake, body tense and poised to wrestle the car should the tires swerve. But the tires held firm (Dwight had personally advised her on their purchase) and she saw the turn to her street coming up. She whimpered with relief.

Someone had taken her parking spot, even though it had her apartment number on it and a RESERVED FOR TENANTS sign near it. She noted the license plate number and decided to talk to the manager in the morning. Right now, the last thing she wanted was a confrontation with anyone. Unfortunately, the only parking space was at the end of the row, and her walk back to her apartment was long and solitary. She felt as if eyes were watching her, eyes with an evil glint in them.

By the time she reached her apartment, her panic attack was in full bloom: shortness of breath, pounding heart, tingling hands, a blackness at the end of vision. Please God, just let me get inside. She unlocked the triple locks on her apartment and swung the door open.

Her apartment was dark. Why hadn't the timer turned the lights on? Had she forgotten it? Or was someone inside, waiting for her? Angela hesitated on the threshold, wondering if she should call the police.

A shape, drifting towards her out of the dark. She tensed for flight, then saw the tail...

"Sprinkles! Oh, it's you!"

Her cat greeted her with the customary yowl for food and attention.

Relief washed over her so strongly she felt her knees go weak. Angela stepped inside and reached for the light switch. The light flared on, and her familiar apartment greeted her: soft lemon yellow walls, gold upholstery, with touches of green. Tasteful, light, refreshing.

Sprinkles wound herself around Angela's ankles, threatening to trip her, but Angela didn't mind. She carefully locked the three locks on her front door, then put the safety chain on and flipped the interior deadbolt. Finally, she propped an iron bar against the door and fitted the other end into a socket Dwight had installed in her floor despite it being a violation of her tenant's agreement.

A quick tour of her apartment proved that there were no signs of entry. The covers of the central heating vents were solidly screwed down. No one was hiding under her bed or in her closet or pantry. All the kitchen knives were accounted for.

It didn't do any good. When she finally discarded her coat and hat and sat on her bed, her breathing was as ragged as if she'd run a mile. Nausea roiled her stomach. She knew that even if she could choke down one of her clonazepam tabs, she would not be able to keep it down. She'd been here before.

Angela closed her eyes and folded her hands together. Dear God, why did this keep happening to her? It didn't matter how many times she went over and over it with her minister, prayer just didn't work when these ... spells ... came over her. And the "therapists" her doctor insisted on just didn't understand her faith, her need for God. They kept talking about cognitive therapy and drugs.

None of them understand.

"MEOW!" Sprinkles demanded food. Angela got up and went into the kitchen, mechanically opening cans and feeding the cat. Putting the can in the trash, she cut her finger on the rim of the lid. The pain didn't bother her, but at the sight of the blood on her finger, she felt clammy sweat break out all over her.

There was really only one person who could help her. She needed a hero, someone who could make her feel safe. She took out her cell phone. Her hands shook so badly she had to dial his number twice.

He answered on the second ring. "Dwight K. Schrute," he said, his enunciation clipped and no-nonsense as ever.

"Oh, D! I..." She couldn't finish.

"Monkey? Is that you?"

"D! Please. I ... I'm so scared." She felt tears clogging her throat – tears of relief at hearing his voice and tears of panic.

Was that a sound at the door? She clutched the phone.

"Monkey, are you having another anxiety attack?" Dwight's voice sounded stern yet concerned. Her heart flooded with joy hearing him.

"Yes. I ... I tried praying--"

"Okay, calm down," Dwight said firmly. "First of all, are you sitting down?"

"No."

"Do so. Acknowledge when you have done so."

Angela walked into the living room and sat down on the edge of her yellow upholstered chair. "I'm sitting down."

"Okay," Dwight said. He sounded very practical. "We'll go through the same routine as last time. No deviations. You must follow my instructions. Is that clear? Acknowledge."

Her head was pounding. "I hear you," she said faintly.

"Very well. First, are all the locks on the door secure?"

"Yes."

"Tell me. In detail."

"The three outside locks are locked. The deadbolt is shot. I have the safety chain on. And the door is braced."

"Excellent!" Dwight sounded proud. "No one can break into your apartment through the door, which is the weakest point of entry. Now, how about your windows?"

"I checked them all. Each one is locked."

"Both window locks? On all windows? Even the ones I bought at the hardware store for you?"

"Yes, Dwight."

"Did you hang the garlic on the windows?"

Angela bit her lip. "Um. No. I--"

"Angela, I've told you before that you must protect yourself against all forces of evil."

"But I don't believe in vampires, D," she said weakly.

"It doesn't matter. Even the forces of evil you don't believe in can hurt you. Now, do you remember where I left you the strings of garlic?"

"Yes," she said in a subdued voice. "In the pantry, in a plastic bag." She went to the kitchen and rummaged in the back for the bag. "I have it."

"Hang it on every window, no matter how small," Dwight said.

She didn't want to let go of Dwight's reassuring voice, so she cradled the cell phone against her shoulder. She went from window to window, hanging the small strings of garlic on nails Dwight had driven into the frames. She felt silly at first, but as she hung the last string, she felt some of the tension at the back of her neck ease. "All done," she said.

"Excellent," Dwight said. "You have checked the vent covers like I told you?"

"Yes, Dwight."

"It's time to put the music on."

The pain behind her forehead was worse. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, Angela. That music is specially selected to enhance your feelings of courage and self-protection. Put it on."

Angela stood and walked over to her small stereo. The CD Dwight had made for her was still in the disc changer. She hit POWER and then PLAY, and in a moment the Star Wars trumpet fanfare boomed through her living room. She winced and turned down the volume. She put the phone back to her ear.

"Okay," she said.

"Yes, I hear it, Angela. Very good. Now, let's get to the next step: protection from chemical attack. Do you still have the plastic tarp and the duct tape I placed on the floor of your closet?"

"I don't think I need that, not right now," Angela said faintly.

"There's not enough to cover all your doors and windows anyway," he said. "You'll have to confine yourself to your bedroom. Use the duct tape to seal both windows and the door. No, wait. You'll need to leave the door free so you can come out and open the door for me."

Angela felt her tension vanish instantly, replaced with relief so intense it was like, well, that feeling she got in ... bed ... with Dwight. "You, you're coming over?"

"Of course I am, Monkey! I was on my way home from the dojo when I got this call. I made a U-turn and now I am almost back at the dojo. I wanted to get a naginata."

"A ... a what?"

"It's a pole with a curved blade at the end. Very useful against demonic attacks, when the demon attacking has longer arms. Oh, and Angela, make sure you have some salt handy when you open the door for me. I want you to throw it over the threshold the moment I step across, so that no evil forces can follow me in."

She was so relieved that he was coming over she didn't even argue with this nonsense. She felt her breath returning to normal, felt her heart rate subsiding. She took several deep breaths.

"Angela, I have to hang up now. Will you be all right for ten minutes?"

"Yes, Dwight," she said. "I ... thank you."

"It is my duty to protect you," Dwight said fiercely. "I will not fail!" He hung up.

Angela closed the cell phone, her hands losing that shaky feeling as she did so. Her stomach growled, and she realized she had not eaten since lunch. Now for the first time since leaving the office, she felt like eating. She remembered that she had a lasagna casserole frozen in her refrigerator. There might be time to heat it up by the time Dwight arrived; he generally didn't like her vegetarian cooking but he did like her lasagna. Yes, definitely she would cook him dinner. And afterwards, there would be other ... comforts.

Because her hero deserved it.

Pam hated it that she could never say what she wanted. She said "I can't" when she meant "Me, too." She said, "We'll always be friends" when she meant "I'm dying inside." It was a way of avoiding difficult moments, arguments. She could never win arguments with her mom or her bossy sister, and with Roy it was a lost cause. He never argued, he just did whatever he wanted and whined later if she didn't like it. Or he'd totally ignore any real issues between them and reduce them to a tickle contest. Or he humiliated her in public and trashed a bar in a fit of jealous rage.

So she'd never learned to say exactly what she meant, because no one listened when she did. She retreated into art, where her hands could speak for her. And when the art was not enough, she took her mom's advice and tried gardening. "Work with living things," her mother said that summer. Good advice. The breakup with Roy had left her raw and sensitive, too sensitive to reach out to make new friends (and she would not, could not think about her best friend) but she needed contact with something besides oils and paints and stains. Something that would grow and change independently of her.

She tried orchids at first, because their waxen perfection looked so permanent. She bought a white Phalaenopsis at Wal-Mart, but it looked stark and lonely on her kitchen window. It also bloomed very slowly. She wanted change, more color, more life.

"Try African violets," her neighbor, Mrs. Dittman said one morning. They had met at the trash bin, when Pam was taking out her garbage. Mrs. Dittman lived two doors down in the apartment building. "You have to make sure they have plenty of humidity, and don't ever mist them; they don't like water on their leaves. But they're like all plants. Just listen, and they'll tell you what they need."

That weekend, Pam went back to Wal-Mart and found a brilliant purple African violet. She immediately liked the velvety texture of the dark green leaves, the splash of color, the yellow center. The plant looked both humble and exotic. She took it home. It died within two weeks.

"What am I doing wrong?" she asked Mrs. Dittman. She had knocked on her neighbor's door and been invited in. Mrs. Dittman's living room was done in brown plaid, but plants in riotous bloom covered every table, every surface. Pam handed the dead African violet to her.

"Hmmm." Mrs. Dittman eyed the plant, hefted it in one hand. "Did you put it in plenty of sunlight?"

"No. I thought violets liked shade," Pam said.

The older woman shook her head, handing the plant pot back to Pam. "Nah. They're not really violets, despite the name. They like light. If they don't get much sunlight, the leaves get thin and dark, like these. You can put them under a grow light if you need to and they'll be fine."

Pam sighed. "I had no idea it was so hard to grow plants."

Mrs. Dittman shrugged. "They're living creatures. They react to other living creatures, to light, to water. Nothing lives in isolation."

Pam went back to Wal-Mart and bought two African violets, one purple and one pink. She bought a grow-light for them and picked up a book on indoor gardening. When she got home, she set up the grow-light on a table in her living room, changed into flannel pajamas, and curled up on her couch with the book. When she woke up the next morning, the book had slipped to the floor and she had a hell of a crick in her neck, but she knew a lot more about gardening.

Two weeks after she brought the second set of plants home, the leaves began to turn pale and to curl. The brilliant flowers withered, turned brown, fell off. She paged through her book, but the symptoms could have been for either overwatering or for lack of fertilizer. She sat down and peered at the plants long and hard.

"Tell me what you need," she muttered.

Well, what would make her droop and turn pale, she wondered. Lack of company, came the instant answer, but she dismissed it. Hunger, was her next thought.

She went to Wal-Mart for fertilizer. The checkout clerk greeted her by name. Back home, she measured the granules, mixed them with water, carefully watered the plants, making sure not to wet the leaves.

Patience, she told herself. They won't bloom overnight. Still, she couldn't help it. Every morning before work she checked for new blooms. The day she saw the first new bud, she walked into work with a spring in her step that had Michael grinning at her all morning.

When she came home, the bud had opened into a new blossom. "Well done," she said approvingly. She refused to worry about what someone might think about her talking to a plant. They were living things, she reminded herself. Nothing lives in isolation, not even a plant.

That night she said goodnight to her plants, as if they were roommates. In the morning, she greeted them and bid them goodbye as she left for the day. She didn't think twice about what anyone else would say. As time went on, she grew used to talking to them.

"Heck of a day at work," she would say as she closed the door behind her. "Michael scheduled overlapping meetings and Meredith passed out in both of them. And that stupid outside extension kept acting up again. I have told those repairmen time and time again that it's out of order, and they don't pay any attention. And Jim ..." She couldn't talk about him. Not to herself, not to anyone. She leaned over the plants, which now included three aromatic herbs, basil and oregano and mint. She inhaled deeply and smiled. "I hope your day was quieter."

She liked the way the plants added color to the room. The pale, aloof orchid, the exotic, colorful violets, the humble kitchen herbs: they added ... life. One night after watering them, she went to get her sketch pad and her pencils. She spent the rest of the evening trying to get the shape of the orchid's petals just right. She didn't succeed, but it didn't feel like time wasted. It felt like time spent with a friend.

On a snowy Sunday afternoon, a knock on her door woke her from a nap. Mrs. Dittman held two plant pots in her arms.

"Oh, come in," Pam said, and held the door wide. The other woman stepped, looking around.

"I can't stay, we're on our way out of town. I was wondering if you'd baby-sit these two gardenias." Even as she spoke, the heady, rich smell of gardenia was filling the room. Pam felt intoxicated. "My son's wife went into labor early, and we have to get to Baltimore right away. I'm afraid these two will go dry if we're gone more than a few days. They need high humidity, and you know how dry this winter air can get. Can you keep them until I get back?"

"Sure," Pam said, taking the pots. The small, glossy green leaves looked almost leathery, but the creamy white blossom on each plant smelled like heaven. "I'm not sure what to do, though."

Mrs. Dittman dug into the pocket of her overcoat. "Oh, don't worry. I wrote it all down here for you. Take care of these, sweetie, and I will really owe you one." She smiled, her eyes wrinkling at the corner.

Pam smiled back. "I'll do my best, Mrs. Dittman."

"Thank you so much, dear," Mrs. Dittman said. "And call me Jackie! See you soon!"

When she had gone, Pam stood for a moment, inhaling the scent of gardenia. It was like smoke, swirling around inside her head, making her feel relaxed and dreamy and warm. She put the two pots on the table (which was now looking rather crowded, if jaunty) and bent down to rest her chin on her arms, looking at them.

"Now what shall I name you?" she said. "Something exotic. Maybe Italian?" She smiled. "How about...Romeo and Juliet?"

Unsurprisingly, the plants made no answer. Still, Pam found herself smiling the rest of the day. And inhaling deeply whenever she passed through her living room. That night she slept deeply and dreamed sweet dreams of childhood laughter.

Three days later, however, she came home to find the white gardenia blossoms had turned brown and fallen to the tabletop. Anxiously, she plunged a finger into the soil of each pot, testing the soil moisture. It seemed fine. She got out her pH strip and tested the acidity of the soil--all within limits. But the leaves of the gardenia and the begonia were drooping.

Pam frowned. She was doing the best she could. Why weren't these plants thriving? She pulled up a chair, sat with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and stared at them.

They'll tell you what they need.

"So. Tell me," she muttered. "What am I doing wrong?"

The fallen petals were dark. Dark, she thought. Dark because ... not enough light? She'd been turning the light off at night because it kept her awake. That night she left it on, and closed her bedroom door instead. It made her bedroom into a retreat, a cocoon, an incubator of dreams. She slept deeply in the dark, like a seed waiting for spring.

Three days later the gardenias had revived and were putting forth new buds. Pam felt like she'd saved a nation from death. She breathed in the friendly, warm scent: it smelled like triumph. "We did it!" she said to the gardenias. "Thanks for telling me what you needed! We're a team." She kissed Romeo, then Juliet, then the nameless orchid.

Mrs. Dittman knocked on her door that Sunday afternoon. "How was your trip?" Pam asked.

"It was fine. Oh, look how nice these gardenias are! You really have a talent for growing things, Pam!" She turned, holding out one of the pots. Juliet, Pam thought. "Would you like to keep one?"

Pam smiled. "I'd love to. Thanks!"

Mrs. Dittman left with Romeo, waving goodbye. Pam closed the door, cradling Juliet in her arms. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Juliet, separated from her lover.

Nothing lives in isolation.

She sat down slowly on her couch, looking at her apartment. Flowers were everywhere, the scents filling the room, from the green, homely smell of mint to the exotic, heady fragrance of the baby jasmine and gardenia. The fragrance marked her territory, her place. Not her parents', not Roy's, not a roommate's. It was all hers. A place where she could speak her mind, make her art, make it all hers, be herself.

Just listen, and they'll tell you what they need.

What did she need? Like the plants, she thought, she needed light and warmth and food. And more than that, she needed attention. Love. She needed love. How long would she, could she, live without it? No one was going to come and nurture her, she thought. No one would be coming by to bring her food and water, to see that she had enough light. She would have to find that sustenance for her heart on her own.

And she knew where to find it, if she would only listen. If she could only speak.

The next day she took Juliet to work. She placed the plant on her desk, carefully siting it so that it didn't block her view of the room. She bent over to smell the creamy, silken white blossom. Smiled.

Waiting for Romeo to come to work.

Jim was lifting the beer glass to his lips when his cell phone trilled. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, put down the glass, and pulled out the phone. One glance at the screen confirmed his guess: a text message from Karen. He turned it to "silent", slammed the cell phone down on the bar and lifted his glass again.

"Bad news?" The bartender was a short, graying Hispanic woman with kind eyes. She flipped a towel over her shoulder and smiled at him.

"My girlfriend," Jim said shortly. He wiped foam from his upper lip. "She's called me six times since I left work an hour ago."

"Breakup?" Her tone was sympathetic.

Jim shook his head. "No, we're good. Just...today's not been a good day."

The bar was dark and cool, and almost empty. Onstage a trio was setting up a drum kit and some microphones, and a few early patrons were settling in at the tiny tables with beer. But Jim had the bar pretty much to himself. The bartender picked up a glass, started polishing it. She leaned back against the mirror in a classic listening pose.

"So," she said. "Most folks, after a bad day, go home to their loved ones. But here you are, ditching your girlfriend to hang with me. Which I totally understand, me being awesome and all, but some might wonder." Her smile took years off her age.

Jim smiled back. "I'm just trying to figure us out."

The bartender popped the top off a mineral water and took a swig. She waved a hand at the nearly empty room. "As you can see, I'm swamped."

Jim drank beer again. "Well. Take this beer. This is the first beer I've had in months. And I love beer."

Her eyebrows lifted. "She got you on the wagon?"

"Not at all. It's just that she likes wine, so I don't buy beer any more."

"Wine snob?"

"I don't know. She didn't really say anything. That's the thing. I mean, all she did was give me this look when I pulled a beer out of my own fridge, and I knew what she thought."

"Hmm."

"Don't get me wrong," Jim said hastily. "I mean, Karen is great. She's beautiful. Smart, funny, sexy."

The bartender's eyebrow went up again. "Oh, yeah?"

Jim remembered those breathy gasps in the dead of night when they were tangled and sweating and laughing together. "Yeah," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Great in bed. And...and she loves me."

The bartender narrowed her eyes, drank more water. Said nothing, listening.

"I mean, I believe her when she says it. And...and it's really great that she does." Because he loved being loved, craved it, felt like a man dying of thirst who'd just been handed champagne. "She's really great."

Thumps and zings from the stage; Jim glanced in the mirror and saw that the band had arrived. A roly-poly drummer sat behind the drum kit, testing his cymbals. The skinny bass player was tuning his guitar along with the singer/guitarist, who had his back to the audience.

"So do you love her?" the bartender asked.

Jim took a long sip of beer. "I don't know."

"That's a pretty important question, given what she's told you."

"Yeah."

"Another beer? That one's low."

"Yeah."

The bartender moved away, came back with another glass. Jim put a twenty on the bar and she took it. "Keep a tab?"

Jim nodded. The door swung open, brought with it a blast of cold air and a quartet of laughing men and women. The bartender went to serve them, came back, placed a bowl of unshelled roasted peanuts in front of him. Nervously, Jim picked one up and started to shell it.

"So who's the other one?" the bartender asked. She took another pull at her mineral water.

Jim winced. "Wow. Did not know I was so obvious."

"Hey, I got boys of my own, same age as you or a little younger. I know that look. This Karen isn't the only one, is she?"

Jim shook his head. "No. Well, there's ... it's complicated."

The bartender nodded. "Of course it is. That's why you're here, and not with Karen. Excuse me a minute." She moved off down the bar to serve another couple who had just arrived.

Jim stared in the mirror. So why am I not happy with her? Why can't I get past Pam and settle into this bright future with this fantastic woman?

The reasons crowded in on him: Because she nags him to cut his hair; he's fine with it the way it was. Because she got him to change his favorite drink, got him to stop eating grilled cheese sandwiches because they were bad for him. Because she got him to spend more money on clothes than he's comfortable with. He bought a new car, even though he was happy with the old one.

And now she's making remarks about his music. Today in the break room at lunch, she'd pulled his iPod out of his hands. "Don't you ever listen to anything but this indie crap?" she laughed. He did like different kinds of music. He just didn't like the stuff she listens to. Which is why he was here, at the blues bar he used to frequent back when he and Mark were both single, and he'd never met Pam Beesly.

Pam. Shit. The thought of her made him turned on and sick at his stomach at the same time. God, would he never be rid of this? It was like a disease that hung on and on and on, that no medicine could cure. He felt infected with Pam. For life.

The bartender was back, towel on her shoulder. She leaned over the bar and stuck out her hand. "Bennie."

"Jim Halpert." He shook her hand. "Bennie?"

"Short for Benicia. So. What's her name?"

"You're not gonna let me off the hook, are you?" Jim smiled and sipped more beer.

"Nope. I hear all the stories. I want to know if you've got a good twist on this one."

Jim shrugged. So tired of telling this story. Of living it. "Nothing special. I fell in love with this girl at work. Her name is Pam. She was engaged to another guy. I ... I sort of told her how I felt, and she turned me down. I moved away, she broke off with him, and I met Karen. Got transferred back here and Karen came with me. That's it."

"The hell it is," Bennie said. "She was engaged, and broke it off?"

"Yeah." He looked down into the peanut bowl. It still hurt to remember that night. Are you really going to marry him? And her silent nod.

"Because you told her?"

Jim looked up. "What? No, no way. I mean, she never called me, never got in touch. So. Here I am. Moving on." He drank the last of his beer. He wasn't sure why he was opening up to this stranger, but it felt okay. It was dark in here, and he didn't know anyone, and they didn't know him. Tomorrow he'd forget all about this murky blues bar. And this conversation.

A fuzzy bass line hummed through the room with a strong guitar strumming over it, and a smoky voice sang:

She's the one who told me
Everyone must choose
Between the light and darkness
Everyone must choose
No one can refuse
No one can refuse..

Good blues, he thought. Everyone must choose. Damn right. And he'd chosen Karen.

"Why can't I be happy with her?" he muttered to himself.

Bennie nodded. "Because she wasn't the one you wanted."

"But the one I wanted didn't want me." Okay, he thought. Too much beer. Too much honesty. Because that thought hurt so much. What did Roy have that I didn't?

Why couldn't she love me?

The singer's voice carried over the conversations of the growing crowd.

Don't care if you believe it
One thing is surely true
You're never gonna feel it
Chained to the blues.

"So this Karen chick, you're just what, settling?" Bennie leaned on an elbow on the other side of the bar. Her gaze was warm, condoling. "You think that'll make you happy?"

"Isn't that what people do?" Jim burst out. He caught his reflection in the bar mirror: pleading, desperate. He hated that look. He lowered his voice, looked at his hands. "I mean, you have to grow up sometime, right? This is the real world. There's no happily-ever-after, right? Here's this bright, smart, fantastic woman who loves me, who's good in bed, who isn't really all that demanding. She loves me. I should be happy, right? I mean, lots of guys never get it so good."

Bennie shrugged. "Who are you trying to convince with this, Jim? Me or you?"

Jim slumped and put his head in his hands. She was right. It was there every second, bubbling under the surface. If he let his guard down ever so briefly, Pam seeped through his defenses and he would find himself staring at her curls, or thinking about the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs...

He felt his stomach do a slow roll. Stop it, he thought. Stop, stop, stop.

The song ended and there was scattered applause around the room. Bennie tapped the bar in front of him and moved away to serve a customer. Jim shredded another peanut hull.

He heard laughter and looked to his left. A woman, her head thrown back, neck bared, laughed a throaty, sexy laugh. The guy with her grinned like he'd just scored a perfect goal. Which he totally had, Jim thought. Making a woman laugh is almost as good as making a woman moan. And while he could make Karen moan, he couldn't remember the last time he made Pam laugh. And that really, really hurt.

Bennie was back, eyeing his glass. "Jim, I'll be happy to get you another beer, but don't you think you'd better have something in your stomach? We've got a corned beef sandwich on special today."

Jim nodded. "Thanks. Sounds good. Got any fries?"

"Yeah. Ten minutes."

"Beer me when it comes?"

"Done." Bennie moved away and Jim sat thinking about Karen and Pam. His head felt light. The music swam through it, a different song now.

I must be out of what's left of my mind
She's gone, I can't even cry
I'm raving at ravens, it's come down to this
I'm out of what's left of my mind.

Out of his mind. Damn right. She's gone, I can't even cry. He had cried, once, that night when he told Pam. Never since. He wouldn't let himself. He'd resolved to by God move on, and move on he had. Trouble was, he really didn't have any direction to move in. And now he was adrift, being steered into some future not of his choosing by the only woman who loved him. He wondered if it was enough to choose a life with a woman who loved him, even if he didn't really love her.

What a mess.

Bennie came back and put a plate in front of him: corned beef on rye, a pickle, cole slaw and a side of fries. He realized that he was, in fact, very hungry, and grinned at Bennie as he picked up the sandwich. "Thanks."

She smiled back. "You're welcome, Jim. I'll get that beer."

The drummer hit the snare and the singer struck a new chord on the guitar (which Jim thought had a really nice, mellow sound to it, a well-loved instrument) and a new song, slow and soulful, poured through the crowd.

Well I'm tied to the blues if I let you
Take me right out of my spot
And you laugh whenever I tell you girl
I love you in spite of myself
I love you in spite of myself

Yeah. In spite of himself. He thought about Karen, about Pam. His stupid life. Why the hell didn't he just move on to another job, a job where he didn't see Pam every day? A better company, a better future. Move in with Karen, marry, have babies. Settle down. She'd be a pretty good wife, he thought. She'd work, and be a sensible soccer mom, and organize the house like nobody's business. She'd support him in his career, and he'd support her in hers, and they'd be partners. Lots of guys would settle for a life like that.

Settle, my ass. Something in him boiled over. Right life, wrong woman. It's just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He felt himself frowning as he finished the sandwich.

Bennie came back to take his empty plate. Jim hung onto the saucer of fries. "How was it?"

"Great," Jim said. He ate one of the fries. "Thanks for the suggestion."

"So what did you decide?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "You're persistent."

"I'm curious. I love soap operas. I want to know how this one turns out."

Jim laughed. "I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

Bennie looked thoughtful, then pensive. "You know what? I don't usually give advice. I just listen. But you know? There was a time when I ... well, there was this guy." She looked away, and there was a sad look in her eyes. She looked back at Jim, gazing straight into his eyes. "Ask yourself one question, Jim. At the end of your life, what will you regret the most?"

Jim blinked. "Wow. That's ... intense."

"Maybe," Bennie said, shrugging. "But then, it's only the rest of your life, fellah."

"She turned me down." He clenched his fist. "I told her I loved her and she ..." He couldn't finish. It hurt too much. Still.

"Why did you tell her in the first place?" Bennie asked. "I mean, was that totally out of the blue, or did you think there was something there?"

Jim remembered Pam's"Me, too." And her hands in his hair and the way she swayed against him, just for a moment. He hadn't imagined that. No way he'd imagined that. There had been something there.

Bennie smiled. "Don't answer. I can see it in your face."

The singer came to the end of his song:

I love you in spite of myself
I love you in spite of myself

What would he regret most? He didn't even have to think about the answer to that.

Jim pushed his empty beer glass back across the bar. "I think I'm going home. What do I owe you?"

"Another ten."

Jim fished out a twenty, waved away his change. "Tip jar for the band?"

"Front of the stage."

"Thanks. I really appreciate ... everything."

Bennie nodded. "Don't mention it. Drive safe. And good luck."

The crowd had grown while he'd been sitting at the bar. Jim squeezed through the dancers and found himself right up against the stage. It was about waist high, so he was looking up at the singer...

...Who finished the chorus, fingered something intricate on the frets of his guitar, glanced down, and winked at Jim.

"I'll be damned," Jim said, laughing. He pulled out his wallet and pulled out his last twenty. He found the tip jar near the singer's feet and stuffed the money in it.

The singer leaned down. "Thanks, Jim!" Never missing a beat.

"You're welcome, Creed," Jim said. "See you tomorrow."

"Later, man." Creed turned back to his guitar, nodding his head in time to the music. His fingers danced along the neck of the guitar, spilling blue notes into the crowd. Blissfully in the moment, lost in his music, happy.

Jim pushed through the door into the cold air of the parking lot. He checked his cell phone: there were eight messages from Karen.

And one from Pam.

"No regrets," he muttered, and punched "Call".