Margen
There are eight of us in the Monday meeting, but on the screen there are always nine squares. The ninth is called Room 2. Camera off, microphone muted. At first we asked around: who invited Room 2? Nobody. It isn't on the invitation. IT says the room doesn't exist: the old office closed when they sent us home, and the building was let to another company.
As the months passed we got used to it. We greet it on joining —'good morning, Room 2'—, half joking, the way you greet a cat. If someone is presenting figures, they make sure the figures are right. You can tell, though nobody says it: we all speak a little better since it started listening.
Yesterday, at 9:03, Room 2 turned its camera on. There was a long table, ten empty chairs, the fluorescent lights on and, on the whiteboard at the back, still written up, the task list from our last week there. Nobody said a word. At 9:04 the camera went off, and we began the meeting sitting a little straighter than usual.