Pam sat in her car watching the taillights and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She had taken her normal route home, forgetting the construction on I-81 that was pushing everyone off onto surface streets. She turned up the radio, hoping against hope for some good news from the traffic reports (every 10 minutes, on the 5s!) but apparently nothing was moving for miles. Her mind wandered to the day’s events, in reverse order: her talk with Dwight, the paper jam, the error code, Angela’s birthday, the rain…and then back further, to her lunch (grabbed quickly in the break room, laughing with Jim before his sales call), her morning (spent covering yet again for Michael, who had failed to send something important to corporate), and breakfast (a dry bagel eaten alone because Roy had an early shift at the warehouse and had forgotten to get cream cheese). She was tired, and annoyed, and she couldn’t concentrate. She found herself wondering if this traffic was somehow conjured up by Dunder Mifflin—if the forbidden jam she could not search for was a traffic jam. Maybe the paper plant exploded. Maybe Schrute Farms had suddenly spiked in popularity because of rumors of a new beet jam. Maybe one of the sales people on a call had crashed their…

She couldn’t finish the thought. She knew Jim was the only salesman on a call this afternoon, and she just couldn’t imagine him crashing his car. For some reason her thoughts just shied away. Jim wouldn’t…Jim couldn’t…well, maybe Jim had planned the traffic jam as a giant prank against Dwight. That was more reasonable, surely, than the idea that he had crashed? She realized all at once that she had never really been in his car for more than a few minutes. She had no idea if he was a good driver or not. But in her mind he always was, and this was all in her mind, so there. She mentally stuck her tongue out at herself and looked up, noticing a few carlengths of space had opened up in front of her. She pulled forward, slid over into the newly emerging right-hand lane, and pulled off at her exit.

Opening the door to the apartment, she looked at the couch expectantly, only to find it empty. Then her mind caught up to her instincts and reminded her it was Friday night: Roy was out with the guys, probably at Darryl’s playing poker. She took off her shoes and jacket, stuck her Tupperware in the sink, and sank down into the couch cushions. Well, if Roy wasn’t here, she’d just have to make the most of it. Picking up the remote and glancing at the clock, she was surprised to see how late it had gotten. Traffic really was bad. But on the plus side, it was time for her two guilty pleasures: Wheel of Fortune followed by Jeopardy. She clicked on the TV.

Ten minutes later she was utterly engrossed. “PICK A C!” she yelled at her screen. “It’s obviously CHICKEN CACCIATORE!” When the unlucky (or stupid?) contestant said “H” she shook her head in disgust and smiled. Roy never wanted to watch this with her, because he said she got too into it. As far as she could tell, her outbursts were mild compared to what happened when a Phillies pitcher gave up so much as a walk, or a Sixers players missed an open shot, but she supposed she could be a little loud. “OH COME ON, AN F? ARE YOU BLIND?”

The contestants finally got it, and the game moved on. As the final puzzle came up for the lucky winner, she glared at the TV, daring it to be difficult. Vanna turned over RSTLNE, giving the shape of the bonus puzzle, an “event”:

_ _ _

S E S S _ _ N

"I need three consonants." “M B C” “And a vowel?” “I”

_ _ M

S E S S I _ N

Pam looked at the screen with a shock. The damn word was haunting her now. She almost didn’t hear the unlucky contestant fumbling with the words. For her it was clear as day, quickly confirmed by a sympathetic Pat.

J A M

S E S S I O N