He had planned to sleep at his palatial office. Shut his eyes in darkness. Open them to light. He’d peer out his window. Survey a well-manicured lawn. Then get to work. Because he loved his job. He really did.
He was a 38-year-old Midwestern transplant, who after three nomadic decades had found a home out west. Work had initially lured him to Los Angeles. Life had attached him. He’d graduated from early adulthood here. Learned a ton. Married. Had kids. He’d traveled north for a payday, then bolted east for a “great job,” then returned for his “dream job.