When I resumed work in my office, I wondered why it felt as if the clock were moving backward. I was so used to structuring my workdays around working out at my gym, lunching with friends, or taking in a midday movie that this straight shift was a shock to my system. Sure, I used to regularly work until midnight, but I was in control of how I spent my time.

At six o’clock, quitting time, Nyah appeared at my door as I was slipping on my shoes. Ouch. She was wearing a fabulous pair of brown boots, which I hadn’t noticed earlier when she was standing behind her desk. They were low-heeled and hand-stitched works of art. Seriously, I had absolute boot envy happening. Especially since my toes were cramped, my arches ached, and I was certain I had a blister on each heel.

“Annabelle, a few of us are going for happy hour after work on Friday,” she said. “I wanted to invite you before you made other plans.”

That made me smile. I had to admit, despite the lack of post-lunch naps, I had missed the social aspect of working in an office. I knew going to happy hour was probably mandatory for me in order to build a rapport with my colleagues, but I still hesitated before I agreed.

“Who all is going?” I asked. I tried to sound casual.

“Just a few of us, the singles mostly,” she said. “Me, Luz, Christian, Booker, Shanna, oh, and Trent, even though he’s married. His wife has him on a strict diet so he mainly goes for the appetizers to fortify himself for his salad-only weekends.”

I laughed. I could totally see Trent loading up a napkin with mini tacos. And no Carson. That worked for me. “I’d love to,” I said. “Thanks so much.”

“Great.” She grinned and her dimples deepened. “I’ll collect you after work on Friday.”

She left with a wave and a flash of her awesome boots, and I shut down my computer, feeling as if I should stay longer but also painfully aware that I was going to give myself gangrene if I didn’t get out of these horrible shoes. I was going to burn them when I got home.

I poked my head into Soph’s work space. She and Miguel had adjoining offices at the corner of the building.

“Hey, I’m heading out, if that’s okay?” I asked.

Her blond hair was up in a French twist on the back of her head, held in place by two pencils. She looked pale and tired, and I wondered how long she planned to stay at work. I felt guilty for leaving, but she smiled at me and said, “I’m sorry. Miguel and I have a . . . a meeting. Otherwise I’d give you a ride.”