The Exit Interview

Chapter 1: The Resignation Letter

Joanna Chen had written the letter six times before she was satisfied. Each draft sat crumpled in her wastebasket, evidence of her indecision, her fear, her desperate hope that maybe things would get better if she just waited another month, another quarter, another year.

But things never got better at Hartwell & Associates. They simply continued, like a clock that never needed winding, like a machine that had forgotten how to stop.

She'd worked there for seven years—seven years of fluorescent lights and recycled air, of quarterly reports and performance reviews that always rated her as "meeting expectations" without ever defining what those expectations were. Seven years of watching colleagues come and go, their desks cleaned out overnight, their names scrubbed from the company directory as if they'd never existed at all.

The resignation letter was brief. Professional. Two weeks' notice, effective immediately. She thanked the company for the opportunities, wished them continued success, and signed her name in blue ink because black felt too final, too much like a period at the end of a sentence she wasn't sure she wanted to complete.

Her supervisor, Margaret Holloway, accepted the letter with the same mild expression she wore during budget meetings and fire drills. "We'll be sorry to lose you, Joanna. You've been a valuable member of the team."

"Thank you," Joanna said, though she wasn't sure what she was thanking her for.

"You'll need to complete the exit process, of course. HR will send you the details." Margaret placed the letter in a manila folder without looking at it. "Standard procedure."

Joanna nodded. She'd seen others go through it—the return of company property, the signing of non-disclosure agreements, the awkward farewell cake in the break room that no one really wanted to eat. It was corporate theater, a ritual designed to make leaving feel orderly and sanctioned.

The email from Human Resources arrived within the hour. Joanna read it twice, certain she'd misunderstood.

*Dear Ms. Chen,*

*Thank you for your years of service to Hartwell & Associates. As part of our standard exit procedure, you are required to complete an exit interview before your departure can be finalized. Please report to Archive Room B-7 in the basement level at 4:00 PM on your final day of employment. Bring your employee badge and any company materials in your possession.*

*Your interviewer will be Mr. Parrish.*

*Best regards,*
*Human Resources*

The basement. Joanna had worked at Hartwell for seven years, and she'd never been to the basement. She hadn't even known there was a basement—the elevator in the lobby only showed floors one through twelve, and she'd never seen a stairwell that led anywhere but up.

She asked Margaret about it the next morning, trying to sound casual. "The exit interview is in the basement? I didn't realize we had one."

Margaret didn't look up from her computer screen. "It's where the archives are kept. Employee records, that sort of thing. Nothing to worry about."

"Who's Mr. Parrish?"

This time, Margaret paused. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a moment before resuming their steady rhythm. "He handles the exit interviews. Has for as long as I can remember."

"What's he like?"

"Thorough," Margaret said, and something in her voice made Joanna decide not to ask any more questions.

The two weeks passed with the strange elasticity of time that accompanies all endings. Some days stretched into infinity, each hour crawling past like a wounded animal. Others vanished before Joanna could register their passing, leaving her disoriented and uncertain of how she'd arrived at Friday when she could have sworn it was still Tuesday.

She cleaned out her desk gradually, taking home one personal item at a time so no one would notice. The photograph of her parents. The small jade plant that had somehow survived seven years of neglect. The coffee mug her college roommate had given her, the one that said "I'm not a morning person, I'm not an afternoon person, I'm barely a person."

By her final day, her desk was nearly empty. Just the computer, the phone, and a small stack of files she needed to hand off to her replacement—a young man named David who had started two weeks ago and already seemed to know more about the company than Joanna had learned in seven years.

"Good luck," David said when she stopped by to give him the files. His smile was pleasant, professional, utterly forgettable. "I hope everything works out for you."

"Thanks," Joanna said. "You too."

She spent her last hours answering emails that didn't matter, attending meetings that accomplished nothing, and watching the clock on her computer screen count down the minutes until four o'clock. At 3:45, she gathered her things—her purse, her employee badge, the cardigan she kept draped over her chair—and made her way to the elevator.

The button for the basement was there now, where it hadn't been before. A small "B" in the same brushed metal as the other floor indicators, positioned at the bottom of the panel as if it had always existed.

Joanna pressed it. The elevator began to descend.