cubicle

They operated out of the third floor of the Marquardt state office building, its rows of government-issued cubicles empty.

Sure, your cubicle mate, neighbor, and aunt all own a Fitbit or JawBone fitness tracker.

By “the Internet,” they meant the people within a seven-cubicle radius of the person who wrote that blog post.

Bronze skin and corn-colored hair have faded into cubicle complexions and cowlicks.

Your cubicle mates pouring over their brackets with all of the serious intent and fevered diligence of Talmudic scholars.

More than likely pushing buttons on a PC at a desk in a cubicle, answering phones, managing deadlines, and going to meetings.

Then a fat, untidy old man appeared in the doorway of a cubicle within the shop, and Edwin Clayhanger blushed.

He dove into their tiny cubicle, a boxlike contrivance between decks, to secure rifles and cartridges.

Holding up his trousers with both hands, Bart stepped inside the indicated cubicle.

He stepped through into a small cubicle, and the door slid shut like a closing trap.

He whirled in panic, then subsided in foolish relief as the cubicle began to rise—it was just an automatic elevator.