“How are you finding the work?”
His voice breaks the silence so suddenly that I flinch.
“The work?” I parrot, eloquent as ever.
“The job. Life on the fiftieth floor.” He glances at me, then back to the road. “How are you finding it?”
I pick at a thread on my coat sleeve. Something about the nighttime and the hazy state of my consciousness makes me far more honest than I would normally be. “I don’t even know. I have no idea what I’m doing. I sat at my desk for eight hours yesterday staring at a closed door. The snake plants are my only friends now. We’ve bonded over our shared confusion about why we’re there.”
He chuckles without smiling. “The adjustment period can be disorienting.”
“That’s one word for it,” I say, side-eyeing him suspiciously. “I was thinking more along the lines of
