ON AUTOPILOT — muscle memory — in through the revolving doors of the Anpat-Enlaw building, a nod to the reception staff, a swipe of my security pass at the bank of lifts. At level ten, another swipe of my pass allowed me entrance to the Learning Online Centre.

Apprehension tied a knot in my gut as I navigated the maze of workstation partitions. Arj, the graphic designer who never spoke to anybody, was eating cereal in the tearoom, and that was comforting, somehow. I waved; he nodded.

In the editors’ pod, my workspace was decorated with balloons. But something was wrong: Lester’s chair was empty, and his PC had been updated to a new Apple computer. His Leunig cartoons had been replaced with photos of cats. My armpits started to drip; an itch teased the inside of my left ear, in a place I could never reach. A woman with short salt-and-pepper hair was hunched over the computer at the spare desk we kept clear for temps during busy times. Senior editors Dee and Dave whooped when they saw me; co-workers from adjacent pods appeared and welcomed me back with hugs that I tried to sidestep. I did not like being touched. The salt-and-pepper-haired woman stood and introduced herself as Myffy, the new part-time editorial assistant. The knot in my gut tightened. ‘Where’s Lester?’ I said.

‘He resigned while you were … away,’ said Dee.

‘But …’

‘Tell you about it later,’ Dee whispered as a fifty-something woman waddled into the pod — porky body sausaged in a royal-blue pantsuit; burgundy hair; a slash of dry red lipstick across a frugal smile.

‘Sidney!’ Pantsuit placed her Penguin Classics mug (Great Expectations) on Lester’s desk, her eyes taking in my gloves. She hesitated, and then shook my hand as though I had a contagious disease. The feeling was mutual. ‘Lovely to meet you at last. Ros Hartman, the new editorial manager.’ Her voice was muddy — somebody who consumed too many dairy products. ‘There’ve been a few changes while you’ve been away.’

Clearly I’d lost more time down the rabbit hole than I thought. My inner ear itched again as Ros told me to take it easy this morning, check the intranet and my email. And then, when I was ready, I could start a copyedit on some Certificate III training materials.

‘I usually do the proofreading.’

Ros looked down at my gloves again.

‘I can copyedit, but it involves more typing so …’

‘Myffy’s been doing all the proofing. You’ll need to acquaint yourself with the new style guide. We’re now using spaced ens instead of un-spaced ems as textual dashes. And Lester was rather lax with the distinction between “which” and “that”.’

‘Yes, we decided it was an outdated —’

‘So I’ve updated the guide to reflect my strict stance on it. A “which” without parentheses is like fingernails on a blackboard for me.’ Ros shivered.

Instinct told me to turn and run. I nodded and smiled.

‘And I’ve tidied up our file system and database. What a mess. I don’t know what Lester was thinking.’ Ros shook her head. ‘We’re no longer using the R or S drives. All files for editorial are in the W drive. Except the ones we prepare for the DTPs — they go in F.’

I sat, turned on my computer, and stared at the screen while Ros droned on.

My computer was asking for my password. Blank. I tried my date of birth. Wrong. Postcode. Wrong. Maiden name. Wrong. I rubbed my face, fighting the urge to scratch my ear like a dog with fleas. Christos was right: I shouldn’t have started back today.

Dee swivelled her chair around and asked if I was OK.

My mouth was dry; I couldn’t swallow. ‘I can’t remember my password.’

‘Have you got it written down somewhere?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘No worries. I’ll give IT a call and they’ll reset it for you.’

‘Let’s go have a cup of tea first,’ Dave said.

‘You always have the best ideas, Dave,’ said Dee.

In the tearoom, Dee flopped a teabag into her ‘Editors do it with style’ mug, and held it under the instant-boiled-water tap. I found my mug with the Supergirl ‘S’ at the back of the cupboard, and made some Earl Grey.

‘What happened with Lester?’ I asked.

‘Surprise!’ Dave called as he entered the tearoom.

I jumped and spilled tea on my hand. I always carried spare gloves in my handbag for small accidents like this.

‘So great to have you back, Sidney.’ Dave placed a cardboard box on the island bench and lifted the lid. Chocolate mud cake. The editors gathered around, sipping tea. They licked their lips and echoed Dave’s sentiments as he served the cake on white Ikea plates.

If there was one thing the editors at LOC liked more than tea, it was cake. I eyed them as they scoffed it — about 500 calories, ten teaspoons of sugar and thirty grams of fat — and sucked crumbs off their fingers. My stomach growled. The meds made me want cake — anything sweet. I fought the meds, eating only half a small slice, slowly with a spoon.