Perry followed his trainer into the dim office space on the 37th floor to collect supplies. Tropical plants were spaced at regular intervals on the left. Nameless other plants that evoked memories of elementary school biology class were strewn about the empty cubicles on the right. Each leaf crinkled to the touch and fell to the shredded grey carpeting.
It was silent except for the distant sound of tarp flapping in the wind. Sunlight and the overpowering smell of dust seemed to create a translucent film over Perry’s eyes, as if he was examining the space in black and white. Floppy disks and Windows 1998 Professional were left on some desks. Others contained hole punchers or instruments that looked like medieval torture devices. Nearly every cubicle featured lengths of wiring trailing up from a hole somewhere in the desk, begging for something to plug themselves into.
“This was Stan’s office,” Perry’s trainer said. “Before he jumped out of that window.”
“Shut up,” Perry coughed. “Who was Stan?”