“That’s bad for your health,” a man said as he approached Trevor’s bench.
Trevor countered, “I didn’t know the Surgeon General was in town.”
Not used to company as he stole a quick nicotine fix outside the office where he worked, Trevor didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he took a drag on his cigarette to get it lit, flicked off his lighter, took a deep breath to fill his lungs with acrid smoke, and held it until he felt his body relax. Then he squinted into the sun, but didn’t recognize the guy. Trevor worked in customer care and had only been with the firm for a month or so. He could count on one hand the number of people he knew in the whole building, and none of them worked higher than the third floor. “Trevor Pritchett,” he said, holding out a hand to the stranger. “And you are?”
