Despite the catchers at every window a few always manage to sneak in, and tonight a dream slips by the curtains and finds Shook fitful.
He’s in a wide, low place, ringed by windows; his stomach lurches with the distance. Light tubes glow a brackish pink in the ceiling. False walls make half-boxes, housing glowing glass.
“Listen,” says Jergesen, his boss. Something dark steams in the ceramic bowl in his hand. “I’m going to need those reports on my desk by five. You think you can handle that?”
Shook goes for his weapon, but all he finds are pens.