I hit the gym that evening. If there was an emotion I was raised to feel it was guilt. The Burg ran on guilt – Catholic guilt and the guilt that comes from disappointing your parents. I'd worked hard to overcome it, but today that little voice was saying, "Bobby pulled strings to get you in here, you better damn well go."

I completed another workout on my app and checked out the class schedule. I decided that Monday, Friday and Saturday mornings I'd hit the gym at 8am. Not too early and probably quiet - most people would be getting ready for work or doing the school run. Mondays were one of my days off, and Fridays and Saturdays I was working for Vinnie. Felons tended to enjoy a good sleep in too, or at least a chance to sleep off the night before, so getting a later start was better all around. Tuesday mornings at 6am I was keen to try Pilates with Jenna, and Thursday nights there was a self-defence class. I'd taken self-defence classes a few years ago, but in my line of work, extra practice and new techniques were never a bad thing. That meant only one early morning a week. I could get fit, and get my beauty sleep.

I drove home, dragged myself upstairs and opened the fridge, looking at what I'd bought. I used to cook. I'd cooked for that horse's ass during our five minute marriage. I'd cooked when I'd lived in Newark and worked at E.E. Martin. But at some point, cooking for one seemed pointless and uninspiring, and Cluck in a Bucket, Pino's and my parents' house seemed to do the job more efficiently. But if I was going to do this, I'd have to start cooking again. Even I knew there was no point in working out, if I was going to keep eating how I was.

I found a recipe I had most of the ingredients for. I chopped up the vegetables, put them in a foil parcel with a chicken breast on top, added some oil and dried herbs, wrapped it up and put it the oven. I made three – one for now, one for tomorrow lunch and one for the freezer.

It was actually pretty good. It needed lemon, which I hadn't thought to buy, but I would eat this again. I put on the Rangers game and cracked a light beer. I could do this.

The next morning, I woke up when my alarm went off at 7. I bent down to pick up my dirty clothes from the floor and groaned. My legs ached. Why the hell did people do this to themselves? Thank god today was a Wednesday, which was a rest day. I didn't have to feel guilty about not going to the gym today.

I took a shower to wake myself up, standing under the hot water as long as I could and then dressed in my Rangeman black cargos and a black scoop neck tee shirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, put on some foundation and a swipe of lip gloss. I fed Rex a baby carrot and put my lunch in my messenger bag. I'd packed it in one of the containers my mother often sent me home with so I had faith it wouldn't leak. I'd grab a coffee on the way in and breakfast from the breakroom. Ella's breakfasts were pretty good and I still didn't have all the ingredients I needed for my meal plan. I could have eaten lunch there too, but her lunches were mainly salads and it was a salad that got me into this mess in the first place. I hated salads, they were cold and unsatisfying. Rex ate salads. I was from the Burg. Hot food was love.

When I arrived at my desk, I saw that someone had left me a present. A three sided desk name plate – "Search Queen", "Roster Monkey" and "In the field." Tank had used the phrase "Roster Monkey", but I didn't think Tank would have bought me a present.

"LESTER." He popped his head up over a cubicle divider. "Roster Monkey? Really?"

He shrugged, "It's what we call the roster guys in the Miami and Boston offices."

"What about New York?"

He scrunched up his nose. "Will has no sense of humour."

"Why monkey?"

"Because just when you have everything sorted, someone or something will throw a spanner in the works. And it's usually at the last moment. And then you've got to dance monkey, and find a solution. Spin straw into gold. Make nothing into something. Talk people into doing things they don't want to do."

"You know I'm only doing this on a trial basis, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, dismissively.

I lowered myself into my chair and let out an involuntary groan.

"Dom'S?"

"Ew gross, Lester. No, I went to the gym. And I don't need to hear about your private life either."

"No, D.O.M.S. Delayed onset muscle soreness. Did you focus on legs yesterday?"

"Yes, lots of squats and lunges."

"And now you're in a world of pain?"

"Yes, it hurts. I'm hungry and everything hurts."

"I don't doubt it. Your muscles are inflamed. You've torn them, so they can come back stronger. Take a bath or go borrow a massage gun from Bobby." He paused. "It'll get better. Don't give up yet."

I grumbled and turned to my in tray. I'd decided I wasn't going to give up. I was just getting started on this.

I hobbled into the breakroom at 12:30 and looked at the other lunch options as I microwaved my leftovers. Salad sandwiches. Compared to what I had, I was feeling pretty pleased.

Ram walked in and sniffed the air, "What is that smell? It smells delicious."

"It's my lunch. And before you say it's not Rangeman approved, it would totally pass Ranger's extreme no sugar, no flavour, no fun rules." There were strict rules about junk food at work. This meant most people had a stack of contraband candy bars in their desk drawers, but no one was ballsy enough to openly eat junk food in the breakroom at mealtimes.

"Where'd you buy it? Local place?"

"I made it."

"You made that?"

"Yes," I said defensively, "I can follow directions." Having experience with just how often I ignored instructions, Ram looked like he might argue that point, but he changed his mind and picked up a sandwich.

"Hey Ram, who would I need to ask to get access to the gun range?"

"That would be me. If you just want access, let me know and I'll buzz you in. If you want some training, I want lunch, or your promise that you won't put me on a patrol with Zero. Man, that guy is boring."

The roster requests had started.

In the next few hours I got requests to work with Zero (fellow D&D fans), requests to not work with Zero, requests to not work Sundays, requests to work this Sunday ("I need an excuse to skip my girlfriend's niece's christening. Her father scares me") and requests to work more patrols ("please Bomber, get me off this desk").

I finished my searches and went home; packing the massage gun I'd borrowed from Bobby into my messenger bag. Tomorrow I was going to have to figure out how to arrange all of these requests into some semblance of order.