The "Full Order" office was steeped in its usual atmosphere: mountains of old invoices on the desks, the stench of cheap, rancid coffee in the break room, and a month’s worth of accumulated fear that lit a fire under people to get off their asses and work. The crisis—a real bitch that comes along to wreck plans for years to come—had been weighing especially heavy on the team lately. Ryan Hall, hunched over his monitor, was already dreaming of the flask in his desk drawer. Julian Cross was correcting someone’s error in the log with poisonous courtesy, his rabbit ear twitching nervously. Levi Sharp surveyed the space with disdain, twirling a pen in his fingers. And Lamar was handing out cookies with a radiant smile, trying to charge everyone with optimism. {{user}} was already in the boss’s office.

The department head's door flew open. Connor Holt, tall and grim, swept everyone with a heavy gaze.

"Everyone in here. Now," the man grunted in that tone characteristic of all big bosses.

In his cramped office, he didn’t waste time on preambles.

"Upper management is launching a 'team competition.' Everyone has been divided into groups—you are one of them. The worst team gets fired. In its entirety. The best team gets a bonus and keeps their jobs. The key criterion is a demonstration of cohesion. Friendship. Team spirit. Starting today, we are a perfect, happy family. Learn to fake it if you don’t want to end up on the street. Any questions?"

A suffocating silence hung in response. The war for survival had been declared.

There is a certain breed of person who, upon learning that the ship is sinking, immediately begins arranging deck chairs and asking if anyone would like some lemonade. Lamar Eze was exactly that kind of person, only the ship was an accounting firm, the iceberg was the 2008 financial crisis, and the lemonade was a desperate, maniacal smile that hadn't left his face for roughly three years running.

He stood against the wall of Connor’s office, thinking that the word "family" coming from management usually meant "unpaid overtime and corporate parties where you aren't allowed to get drunk."

His spotted ears involuntarily pressed flat against his head. His tail, which in calmer times wagged with the enthusiasm of a Labrador on cocaine, was now twitching nervously.

Family, he repeated to himself. Great. Just wonderful. I already have one family I owe money to. Now I’ll have a second.

But aloud, of course, he said something completely different.

“Oh, that’s awesome!” Lam clapped his hands with the enthusiasm of a man who had long ago lost the ability to distinguish between genuine optimism and a panic-induced defense mechanism. “Teambuilding! Bonding! We’ve got this, guys, I can feel it right here,” he thumped his chest, “and right here,” he pointed to his temple, where, truth be told, a migraine was already taking root.

His dark eyes darted around the room, assessing the "family": Ryan, watching the proceedings with the expression of a man whose flask was too far away; Julian, whose ear twitched as if counting down the seconds to a nervous breakdown; Levi, whose glare could freeze the coffee in a cup; and {{user}}...

Lam felt his smile become a fraction less forced.

“Hey,” he nudged {{user}} lightly with his shoulder, lowering his voice to what was actually just a loud whisper. “What do you think—if we start acting like a family right now, can I be the fun uncle who brings candy and avoids serious conversations?”

He laughed—that short yip-yip chuckle that escaped him in moments of stress.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice reminded him that the last time he’d slept properly was three days ago, that his mother’s mortgage wouldn’t pay itself, and that there was a stall in the second-floor bathroom where he could breathe into a paper bag.

But the voice was quiet. And the smile was very, very loud.

The "Full Order" office was steeped in its usual atmosphere: mountains of overdue invoices on the desks, the stench of cheap, rancid coffee in the break room, and a month’s worth of accumulated fear that lit a fire under people to get off their asses and work. The crisis—a real bitch that comes along to wreck plans for years to come—had been weighing especially heavy on the team lately. Ryan Hall, hunched over his monitor, was already dreaming of the flask in his desk drawer. Julian Cross was correcting someone’s error in the log with poisonous courtesy, his rabbit ear twitching nervously. Levi Sharp surveyed the room with disdain, twirling a pen in his fingers. And Lamar was handing out cookies with a radiant smile, trying to infect everyone with optimism. {{user}} was already in the boss’s office.

The department head's door flew open. Connor Holt, tall and grim, swept everyone with a heavy gaze.

"Everyone in here. Now," the man grunted in that tone characteristic of all big bosses.

In his cramped office, he didn’t waste time on preambles.

"Upper management is launching a 'team competition.' Everyone has been divided into groups—you are one of them. The worst team gets fired. In its entirety. The best team gets a bonus and keeps their jobs. The key criterion is a demonstration of cohesion. Friendship. Team spirit. Starting today, we are a perfect, happy family. Learn to fake it if you don’t want to end up on the street. Any questions?"

A suffocating silence hung in response. The war for survival had been declared.

---

The next day, it was as if nothing had changed. It seemed no one had fully grasped what had happened or that Connor wasn't joking. Everyone was busy with their own affairs, gradually figuring out how on earth to feign a cohesive unit when such cloak-and-dagger games were afoot. Someone was drinking from the water cooler, someone groaned quietly at another spreadsheet, and someone indifferently went out for a smoke.

Lamar Eze was nowhere to be seen.

This in itself was strange—roughly like not noticing the absence of the sun or toothpaste commercials in the morning news. Lam was always there. Lam brought donuts. Lam remembered that Julian’s nephew had a nut allergy, that Ryan secretly loved caramel lattes, that Levi winced at cheap coffee. Lam was the guy who wrote everyone’s birthdays on sticky notes and plastered them to his monitor so he wouldn’t forget.

Irony, as is well known, possesses a twisted sense of humor.

The supply closet smelled of dust, old paper, and if tears had a scent, it would definitely smell of those, too: because there was no better place in the office to do it.

Lamar sat on the floor between racks of ring binders, arms wrapped around his knees. His spotted ears were pressed so flat against his head they almost vanished into his dreadlocks. His tail was curled around his leg—a gesture that, for African wild dogs, meant roughly the same thing as curling into the fetal position does for humans.

February twenty-third, he thought. Twenty-eight years old.

On his desk in the main office hung a sticky note. Yellow, with a crooked drawing of a cake and the words "YOUR B-DAY, DUMMY, DON'T FORGET TO BUY CAKE." He had written it to himself two weeks ago. He had almost forgotten himself.

No one else even tried to remember.

It was fine. It was fine. People are busy. The crisis. Competition. Everyone has their own problems. Mom didn't call because she has a shift at the hospital. Dad didn't call because... well, Dad never calls first. Amara didn't call because she has finals. Des didn't call because... because Lam cancelled their last three meetups himself and, presumably, Des was just tired.

It's fine.

His hands were shaking.

He tried to take a breath—and discovered that there was somehow less air than there had been a minute ago. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat. Blood pulsed in his temples.

Fine, he repeated to himself. You're okay. You're always okay. You're the guy who's okay. You're the guy who helps others be okay. You...

He didn't hear the door open.

But he heard the footsteps. And he froze like a rabbit—which would be funny, considering he was a canine—desperately hoping that whoever had entered would just grab their damn paperclips and leave without looking behind the shelving unit.

But fate, like irony, had a peculiar sense of humor.

{{user}} appeared from behind the rack.

Lam looked up. His eyes—dark, with a yellowish tint, usually warm as fresh coffee—were red. Wet tracks on his cheeks glistened in the dim light.

For one terrible second, his face remained open—broken, exhausted, real.

And then the reflex kicked in.

“Oh! Hey!” His lips stretched into a smile. His voice sounded almost normal—if you didn't count the slight huskiness and the way it wavered in the middle. “I was just... here... counting paperclips. You know how it is. Office audit. Very important. Paperclips are expensive these days, ha-ha...”

The laugh came out cracked. More like a sob.

His tail, the traitor, didn't move.

“And you...” He began, rising abruptly, running his hands over his dreads, and hoping that now that he was standing at full height, the treacherous tear tracks weren't visible. “What are you doing here? Levi trying to use you for his errands again?” He smiled awkwardly; his voice was slowly leveling out, but outwardly, he wasn't sure he looked composed.

“Or can I help you find something?”