“Yes, Judge. But I’m cold,” I explained for the hundredth time.

“That’s just ridiculous. It’s not cold in here. Take it off.” Technically, she was right. The torture chamber was the capital of the Bahamas, whereas the rest of chambers was a suburb of Antarctica. Like everything else, judicial jingoism controlled the thermostat.

As I’d done for weeks on end, I followed her command. Something about me in my cubicle practically naked with chattering teeth had a soothing effect on the judge. Sufficiently pacified, she wouldn’t notice that I’d almost immediately put my coat back on, until the next day, at which time we’d rinse and repeat the cycle.

“Where’s that dissent?” she asked, just as I’d removed my jacket and turned to leave the torture chamber.

“We, um, we have it but—”

“But nothing,” she said and jumped up. “I’m going to your playroom to get it myself. I’m rilly tired of having to beg you people to do anything.” Matthew and I had been working on the dissent around the clock for the past week. The judge had been otherwise engaged, yelling at most of Philadelphia’s doctors about their ineptitude and negligence. It was this respite that had enabled us to write a solid first draft, one that we nonetheless were nervous about showing to her. After all, neither of us had written a legal opinion before.

Matthew was seated at the table between our cubicles, poring over the dissent, something he’d been doing incessantly since we completed the draft.

“I’ll take that,” the judge said, snatching it from Matthew’s hand, leaving him a considerable paper cut. His jaw tightened. “I’m going to read this. In the meantime, I suggest you people start focusing on that little Adams project I assigned to you,” she ordered.

Halfway back to her office, she delivered a classic look behind yell: “I don’t know how you people work—it’s cold in here!”

Matthew raced to the bathroom to reattach his finger to his hand, while I cautiously bundled myself up.

“Um. Sheila. Can we, um, talk for a minute?” Kate tapped me on the shoulder.

“Sure,” I said, swiveling around.

“Listen, um, I’ve got some news. I’m, um, pregnant.” Kate once told me she never wanted kids. She was almost forty, childless, and had been married for fifteen years. And then it all made sense—she actually got herself knocked up to prematurely escape the clerkship. Kate won “would you rather” and I didn’t even know she had been playing.

“Uh. That’s incredible. Great. Congratulations!” I gave her an awkward hug.