He wakes up two days later, alone and filthy. He’s eaten nothing, and polished off an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Still in a bit of a drunken stupor, he dials her number.

"Dunder-Mifflin; this is Pam," she answers. Her voice sounds angelic. She doesn’t sound hurt, and he doesn’t want to put her there.

He hangs up.

Head in hands, he falls back onto his bed.

He hasn’t been to work in two days. He hasn’t seen Pam since Tuesday. He’s dying to know what she’s done, if she’s okay, who she’s been with…

Two days. Does he still even have a job? He can’t remember calling in sick or anything.

Hunched over the toilet five minutes later, he says something he hasn’t in years: "Here’s to hoping."

He prays – something he hadn’t done in nearly ten years – that it isn’t too late.

******************************************************** 

When he wakes up later, on his couch, the first thing he thinks of is her smile.

And it’s so blindingly bright – and pure – that it only worsens his headache.

It doesn’t loosen any of the tightness in his chest, either.

The ringtone on his cell phone is on the final few notes, coming from the kitchen. He makes his way as fast as he can, but misses the call.

He sees five missed calls: Pam, Michael, Michael, Dwight, Pam.

One voicemail: Pam.

When he finally remembers his password, and hears the message, he wishes he had a lake to throw his damned phone to the bottom of.