The office was the same. Daniel was not.
He sat at his desk, mid-morning, returned from a trip that was supposed to be business and turned out to be an autopsy. The branded mug held coffee that had gone cold an hour ago because drinking it would have required the decision to lift it, and decisions, even small ones, were arriving at his desk with a new kind of weight, as if each one had to pass through a security checkpoint that hadn’t existed before Paris.
His right hand was bandaged.