See the thing is that Jim talks in his sleep.

Karen doesn't know if this is a regular thing or just because he is really drunk (though she hopes to find out soon enough), but she fully intends on taking advantage.

When he grumbles, "Pam," into her backseat, she wonders, "Who's Pam?"

She's surprised when he actually answers back something to the effect of, "Mmmgrceptionist."  She's even more surprised when he adds a moment later, softly, "Love Pam."

"The receptionist where?"

"Scranton."

Karen's forehead wrinkles.  Interesting.

She thinks about the idea for two full days, trying to decide what level of crazy it is.  Dunder-Mifflin's website shows a Pam Beesley, and a quick Google search turns up two archived announcements in the Scranton Times .  One is several years old, announcing an engagement; the other reads:

Roy Anderson and Pamela Beesley will be wed next Saturday, June 10, 2006, at the Elm Park United Methodist Church.  Pamela is the daughter of...

Karen gets no further, struck by two things.  The first is how horribly amusing the name Pam Anderson is.  The second is the timing of the wedding, just weeks after Jim had first shown up in Stamford, looking tired and thin.  This settles things for Karen, and after a quick search for directions, she goes to tell Josh she needs a day off.

She leaves early enough that she pulls into the parking lot of Dunder-Mifflin Scranton at 10:00am.  She took care this morning to wear her glasses and the most dressed-down outfit she owns.  She thinks this is probably unnecessary, but it would be just her luck that someone would recognize her from the company newsletter or something and she really doesn't want to get caught in the middle of this stupid quest she's on.  She shifts the flowers she bought nearby from one arm to the other and heads inside.

She walks into the Dunder-Mifflin office and wrinkles her nose at what she sees.  How depressing.  And messy.  And kind of smelly.

"Can I help you?"

The question comes from the bored-looking woman behind the receptionist's desk and Karen strides forward to get a better look.  "I have a flower delivery for Jim Halpert."

The receptionist looks pained and shoots a glance at the desk immediately to Karen's left.  Karen looks.  It's occupied by a young-looking guy with dark hair Karen assumes is Jim's replacement.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist says, now looking miserable.  "He was tr--he transferred to a different branch.  I can give you his new address."

"Please," Karen asks.  She frowns when the receptionist writes out Stamford's address without having to look it up.  The frown deepens when she hands Karen the sheet of paper with her left hand, naked except for the shine of clear nail polish.

"And your name?" Karen asks, maybe a bit too sharply.  She doesn't like how this is shaping up, but this is what she came here to find out.  "For our records."

"Pam Beesley."

The paper crumples in Karen's fist.  She doesn't like how this is shaping up at all.