With nothing else aside from pop-culture stereotypes to draw from, Camille imagined that she would walk into an office space filled with underage Bill Gates wannabes drinking Red Bull by the gallon while they worked on complicated computer programs, played video games, and endlessly debated the true meaning behind the Lost series finale. What she saw instead was a sterile gray work space with few frills and even fewer people. The only noise she heard as she walked through the glass door was the occasional clatter of fingers striking a keyboard and the office’s lone copy machine churning out pages that no one seemed to be in a particular hurry to collect. In fact, it wasn’t until Camille called out that she saw anyone at all. “Hello? Is there anyone here who can help me?” At that, a middle-aged man with a mess of curly red hair better suited on a ten-year-old peeked at her from the top of his cubicle partition. “Are you lost?”
