Page 1 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

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QUINN

TOILET DUTY AND OTHER CAREER HIGHLIGHTS

“Hey, intern! Could you brew another pot of coffee? Some savage left it empty.”

“On it,” I answered.

“Bradley, I need twelve copies of this. Collated.”

I gave a quick nod. “Already collating.”

“Can you call maintenance? Printer three is making a noise that feels accusatory.”

“Absolutely.”

“Hey, the bathroom on two is out of toilet paper.”

“Got it.”

“Jacobson, lunch order. Salad, no onions.”

Suppressing a sigh, I said, “I’m Bradley.”

“Right. No onions.”

There were only so many ways a person could answer a demand before words stopped sounding like words and started sounding like one of those sad little desk toys that mooed when you hit a button.

By ten thirty, I’d handled the coffee, copies, facilities calls, and even dealt with a missing dry-cleaning order. Then I found myself carrying a plunger and a bottle of industrial cleaner to one of the partner bathrooms.

I had a law degree, for God’s sake. It was framed and hanging on the wall of my apartment, because I figured my six-figure debt should at least add to the décor. Yet there I was, standing in a silk blouse from the thrift store and sensible block heels, using a plunger on a toilet some man making four-hundred-thousand dollars a year had decimated with biblical confidence.

What made it so hard to resent was the fact that no one was ever rude when they asked for something.

People at Payton & Wallace didn’t bark, but there was always a little urgency in the air, a little pressure, a little “while you’re up,” and “could you just.” Because I was an intern and eager and not stupid, I said yes before anyone had time to ask twice.

We were six interns. I had to stand out if I wanted one of the two projected associate spots next year. Every day felt like a group project where the prize was health insurance, and the punishment was going back to waitressing with a license to practice law.

So yes, I was unclogging the fucking toilet.

“Come on,” I muttered as I worked the plunger and tried not to think about how much I needed this job. “You and me, toilet. Let’s make this a growth opportunity.”

The toilet didn’t appreciate my teamwork mindset. It threatened me with a gurgle, then sent up a belch of swampy water that stopped just shy of my hand.

I groaned under my breath. “This is beneath both of us,” I told the toilet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, three times in quick succession. Either there was a true emergency in the office, or someone had discovered there were only oat-milk creamers left.

Abandoning the plunger, I scrubbed my hands until they felt flayed, then checked the screen.

Moira: Where are you?

Moira: Cressler needs the family court binders.

Moira: And someone just asked me if the flowers in the break room were dead. Please advise.

I glanced at my reflection. A little flushed and harried, but still cheerful. My face had always had this traitorous quality where stress sat on it like a polite houseguest instead of the squatter it really was.