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She closed the door and took the same visitor’s chair as the last time.“I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said while scribbling notes on a report on his desk.Tiffany sat with her knees together and her hands in her lap. She had laid her copy of the architectural plans and notes on the floor next to the chair. The last time she was in the office she knew what she was going to do. Now she wasn’t as sure.Mr. Johnson looked up. His gaze dropped from Tiffany’s face to her breasts and then her lap. It lingered there before returning to her face.“So how are you doing on the project?” he asked.“Um, pretty good. With a little more experience I’ll be your best architect.”“I’m sure you will. I’m sure you will. But what about the current project?”“Well, I put in a fireplace and pitched the ceiling.”“The ceiling? If I recall, there’s not much of a crawl space.”“I didn’t check that. But so what?”“That means a change to the roof. That’s pretty expensive.”Tiffany squirmed in her seat. Her temples. And with every breath, his eyes opened wider, adjusted to the glimmer of light that was hitting him and the mud around him through the canopy above, and exposed more of the impossible. A forest. A jungle. The heat was immense, and it wasn’t long before beads of sweat started to drip from his body. The smell was intense, of plant life, of animals, of rot and shit and fungus.Breathing wasn’t so easy anymore. He forced it, made each breath happen, but each was flooding him with a billion smells, and he almost started to panic. He’d never had a panic attack before, but he could feel it coming, feel his muscles lock and started to shake, feel his lungs refuse to listen. He forced them to listen. Fucking breathe.He gripped the tree beside him, felt the moistness of its bark, and whatever was growing on that bark. He felt his shoes push and shift against mud, and grass, and rocks and roots, and mulch. He felt the oppressive heat and humidity push through his suit. He felt eyes on him,.
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