It was a little past eight thirty, and I was rummaging through the breakroom fridge looking for something to eat. The West Wing was like a ghost town with people heading out early to enjoy the weekend. I pulled out a glass container filled with pasta. It smelled like it was still good, but you can’t trust everyone’s cooking. The last thing I needed was to have my stomach churning all night. Pushing aside a bottle of apple juice, I found a roast beef sandwich still sealed in the packaging.
bestie are you stealing old food
