If Basil cares so much about Orsk, he should come in here and clean, she thought. The walls of her stall were covered with graffiti. If it had been funny (“Pull here for MFA Degree” right below the toilet paper dispenser) she would’ve stayed longer, but it was mostly weird random names and dates. After wiping and flushing, she walked to the sink, soaped her palms, fingers, and wrists, and then lathered them up again, trying to drag out the time before she had to return to the break room.

When she got back, Basil checked his watch. “That’s your third trip to the restroom in an hour.”

“And that’s your business why?”

“Because you’re here to do floor sweeps. Not hide in the bathroom all night.”

Amy gritted her teeth. “I’ll do your little floor sweeps. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

She marched back to her seat. The break room was furnished with Arsle tables and chairs; they were affordably priced and had a simple elegant design, but Amy couldn’t last fifteen minutes in one without getting a backache. Ruth Anne sat quietly with three tubes of Blistex lined up on the table and the Sudoku book hidden on her knees.

Next to the door was a giant plastic bucket full of Magic Tools. The geniuses in Milwaukee designed their furniture to be incompatible with ordinary household tools; Orsk products could be assembled only with the proprietary Orsk Magic Tool. The small, L-shaped wrench was famously easy to lose, so the store gave them away by the bucketful and employees were required to carry one at all times. Amy had one in her pocket right now—and another dozen rolling around her junk drawer at home.

She glanced around the room. Over on the wall was a large banner that read: “The hard work makes Orsk a family, and the hard work is free.” The completely fake, slightly stilted Euro-phrasing was part of Orsk’s fake Ikea act, and Amy couldn’t decide if it was slightly annoying or totally offensive. In her opinion, nothing was worse than a store that pretended to be something it was not.

There was nothing else in the break room to occupy Amy’s eyes or mind. A flat-screen TV hanging in the corner displayed a soundless CNN broadcast. On it, a bunch of prisoners in orange overalls were being marched in a circle around a concrete exercise yard. Amy knew the feeling.

Basil dragged his chair over to Amy’s table. “You know, I was really sorry when I saw your transfer request. I think you have a lot of potential. With a little hard work, I really think you could be Shop Responsible.”

“Thank you,” she said, not taking her eyes off the television.