I’d sooner evaporate like boiling water from a jug, but here I am, wearing a tie and knocking on an office door instead. My boss is behind that door and my stomach’s twisting with the knowledge that there’s no escape.

“Come in!”

Still, it seems that an executioner inviting you to the chopping block sounds friendlier than the officious store clerk who barks “Hey!” when you leave without letting them inspect your bag.

I take a deep breath and enter. My boss is at his desk. It’s not polite to put feet on a table, but what about a tail?