But the others don’t seem to suspect I’ve declared myself a dead woman walking, even though I’ve pared down my office to what will fit in one tote bag. No more tchotchkes. No more three extra pairs of shoes. Certainly no more gifts of wine from authors. Just a lacquer in-box, a pair of headphones, a coffee mug, and the wooden musical merry-go-round someone gave my mother the day I was born. I could be out of here on fifteen seconds’ notice, and knowing is enough to keep me here for now.