In moments like this, Lisa wished she was one of those types who rejected authority figures.
Mr Dean was towering over her, his smile showing his crooked, rotting teeth. His greasy, slicked-back hair smelt like bananas. Lisa gulped down bile.
Seconds ago, he’d asked her to mop the spacious foyer floor. For no other reason than she was in his line of sight.
‘Yes, Mr Dean.’
On her way to the cleaning closet, she dreamed of how his head might look, detached from his body and sitting in the bucket.