I walk into the bank three minutes before my shift, and all eyes set on me. My chatting coworkers’s conversations crumble into a murmur. The whole room doesn’t fill with silence, but a dramatic drop in volume coincides neatly with the fact that everyone’s now looking right at me.
Mr. Larkins, screaming at someone over the phone, is still a silhouette seated in his insulated office. But after a phone beep, after a door swinging open, my boss enters the front office and joins the cacophonous chorus of stares.
“Geez, Harding,” he says, “You look like shit.”