Staring up into the sky on this chilly day before Thanksgiving in New York City, Kevin knew he didn’t control anything anymore.

Twenty-five or thirty presents waited under the glittering Christmas tree in the corner of the lobby. Kevin had been staring at the gifts for some time now, wondering whether there were actual items in the wrapped boxes or if they were just for show. He thought the latter, especially since he doubted a company like Silverschone Investments got together to pick names and sip hot cocoa and play warm and fuzzy Christmas games.

Warm and fuzzy aren’t the words I’d associate with anything to do with banks or mortgages these days.

He thought it was interesting to have the Christmas tree out before Thanksgiving. Perhaps the decorating committee was on top of things this year. Or maybe they knew the company was going to go under before Christmas, so best celebrate the season as quickly as possible.

Stop with the stupid thoughts, Kev. His lower back was starting to sweat. Maybe because after sitting in this fancy leather armchair for what felt like forever, he was beginning to feel strapped into a straitjacket. Or maybe because he wasn’t used to wearing a dress shirt and a coat. This was as dressy as he got, unless someone died or got married.

Kevin Morrell was able to set the dress code at his office, and that meant business casual with a stress on the word casual. No, he didn’t want people showing up in flip-flops and looking as if they just came from the beach or were on their way to a Jimmy Buffett concert. But he also hated the corporate thing.

To try to combat the nervous energy that made him cross his legs a dozen times, Kevin took out his phone and logged onto Twitter. This was his guilty pleasure, like Jenny’s love of chocolate, which had recently been doubly intensified. After reading tweets from strangers commenting on politics and pop culture and how long it took to get out of a parking garage, Kevin decided to share what had been on his mind for the past half hour.

I’m wondering what this receptionist really does, because for half an hour I’ve seen nothing going on except Nazi-like stares.

He had thirteen more characters to spare. Awesome.

Maybe she’s following you on Twitter and she goes by GuardTheDoor911.

He deleted the stupid tweet before posting it, and then stuck his phone back into his pocket. He thought of a joke he’d heard a while ago about a man phoning a mental institution. The caller asks the receptionist to check and see if there is anybody in room 24. When the receptionist tells the man the room is empty, he says, “Good, that means I really did escape.”

Now I’m telling myself jokes. This meeting needs to happen before I start getting really loopy.

Kevin breathed in and out slowly, a technique he used whenever he was about to speak to a large group or go into an intense meeting.