Mrs. Abigail appears to be enjoying her coffee when I show up at five minutes to nine, “Go right in, he’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” I say opening both wooden doors.

He’s closing his paper, The Globe and Mail, “I take it you haven’t been to your office yet?”

His question catches me off guard, was I supposed to? “Um no, should I have?”

He presses the intercom button on his phone, “Mrs. Abigail, can you pick up Isabella’s computer from her office?”

“Sure, Mr. Anderson.”

“You bought me a computer?” I gush.

“The NSA provides you with one. I did not personally, no.”

I can’t wipe the stupid smile...