An Aussie by birth,
Zoe currently hails from Northern
Virginia. As a rookie
writer for Prison Fellowship,
she spends her days interviewing ex-offenders, corresponding with current
inmates, and practicing maneuvering in her rotating chair. She also contributes
occasionally to WORLD Magazine
and her personal journal. When she's not writing, she's probably riding her
bike, hanging out at her church in Washington, DC,
or fighting the ants in her townhouse.
The first day of the rest of my life began on July 5, 2005. And for some reason, I
felt much older that week than I had ever felt before—or have ever felt since.
I climbed the marble steps of the lobby, my pumps clicking as I followed my new
boss to the second floor. When we got to the third floor, I heard that ever-incessant
clicking of keyboards and the almost jolly jingle of telephones, but all I saw
was an unending labyrinth of cube space—almost as if I’d stepped into a
horizontal knickknack shelf, each fuzzy gray wall connecting to the next in a
seemingly infinite corridor.
When I reached my own little cubby in the giant maze, I was
greeted by a computer that looked like it had been well-loved by its previous
owner, a rather generic rolling chair, a phone with more buttons than I knew
how to use, and a company phone list—my only link to humanity.
I plopped down in my nondescript chair and began to read
through my new employee packet. My mind wandered back to the month before and my
whirlwind expedition through the stomping grounds of Shakespeare, C.S. Lewis,
and William Wallace. My stint in Europe had put the
finishing touches on my four years at Grove City
College, where, two weeks earlier,
I had donned my cap and gown, cleared out my musty dorm room, and said good-bye
to four years’ worth of friends.