“How much time do we have?” Miles, pausing to ask for a prognosis.

“My official employment with you will end today. But I’ll be in for the next two weeks or so, unofficially, to help Bo transition into his new role. Though everyone in this room knows he won’t need my help.” It wasn’t presumptuous, I bet, to state the obvious; it went unsaid that Bo would be Miles’s next chief of staff, and I assumed we could just do away with formalities. I was grateful for Bo, my friend, and whatever millions of tiny life decisions had bent our roads toward each other. We’d been a team for years, partners in work and buddies outside of it, and an era was coming to an end. But the world, and this office, would keep spinning. “It will be hard, but only for me. You all will be fine.”

Bo looked up and met my gaze from across the coffee table. He’d been silent so far, and when he spoke his tone was unemotional, but in his eyes I saw more. “‘Nothing forces us to know what we don’t want to know,’” quoted Bo, “‘except pain.’”

“Which of your favorite dead Irishmen said that one?” asked L.K. From somewhere on her person she had procured mousse, a comb, and started on my hair, prepping me for the photographer. She adjusted my part, smoothed my flyaways and the collar on my jacket.

“Aeschylus, actually,” said Bo, ever our resident scholar, “coming in hot with the wisdom.”

“So, what do you know now, Daisy, that you didn’t know before?” Miles asked, taking his seat again next to Bo.

“You’ll be able to read the answer to that question,” I said, playful, “in next week’s Post.”

“Well, fuck.” Miles rolled his shoulders; I sensed he was adjusting, resetting. “I hope this works for you, Daisy.”

“I’m optimistic,” I said. And I was, mostly. My hair already felt fuller, thanks to L.K., so that didn’t hurt.

“Well, optimism is contagious,” Miles said, smiling slowly. “So, let’s raise our coffee mugs. L.K., put the lint roller down and raise your cup of tea, Bo, your can of toxic energy slurry. There. Now, let’s cheers to Daisy. The swamp will miss you.”

Hear, hear, they said. Cheers.

Shortly after the meeting ended, and we all dispersed to our separate offices, the photographer Atlas had sent—a petite girl with straw-yellow hair and a mammoth camera bag—appeared at my door. She asked where she should set up her gear. “Not here,” I said. “This isn’t where I work.” Not anymore.