Chapter One

  If reincarnation is real, I want to come back as a parking garage support pillar. There’s no existential stress for concrete, only the cool, inert pleasure of letting people lean, crash, and pee against you. Or maybe as the mysterious black mold that haunts the ceiling corners here on level three, quietly biding my time and reminding everyone that nature, not management, gets the last word.

  The engine ticks and groans in protest as I turn it off, exhausted from our joint effort to inch a quarter-mile at a time in morning traffic. The old Corolla’s dashboard smells faintly of egg salad and self-pity, which is impressive, since I have never in my life eaten an egg salad sandwich in this car.

  My phone rings. Every muscle in my body tightens. I glance at the screen, then turn it away. It’s only 8:17 a.m., but my armpits are already moist. Not with sweat, technically, but with whatever weird cold secretion the body produces when the phone rings and the word “Memory Cares” glows from your screen. One of the many notifications that makes me want to crawl back into bed and hide under a weighted blanket, or just never wake up in the first place.

  I don’t answer right away. It could be a bad day. It’s probably a bad day. Maybe if I wait long enough, the universe will get bored and pick on someone else.

  I let it go to voicemail, but then the phone rings again. Persistent. Daring me. I wipe my hands on my pants (moisture: confirmed) and answer.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  The line is quiet. There’s a faint TV in the background, and a vague, rhythmic beep that says “hospital adjacent.” For a moment, I brace for the second-worst sound in the world: the confused, anxious voice of the man who raised me, asking for a version of me that stopped existing twenty years ago, or maybe people who have long since been dead.

  But today the universe is bored.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Dad says, in his normal voice. His best days sound like seventy-five percent construction worker, twenty-five percent pirate. “You catch the end of the Dodgers game last night?”

  He’s having a good day.

  My shoulders, which have been trying to climb into my ears, sink two inches lower. “Nah, I missed it. Who won?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Ump’s blind as a damn bat. You know what an umpire and a politician have in common?”

  I smile even though he can’t see it. “Hit me.”

  “They both decide outcomes without ever being the ones in the game.” He cackles. “You get it?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I get it.”

  He’s sharp today, sharper than I am. This is both a gift and a cosmic test, because with sharpness comes the awareness of what he’s lost. The kind of awareness that can switch off, mid-sentence, and leave us both standing in the sudden dark.

  He’s the one to break the silence. “What’s up, kid? You sound like you just got caught jerking off in confessional.”

  There is literally no hiding anything from this man. Not even feelings over a bad Thursday morning.

  I try to go nonchalant. “Just, uh, about to go to work.”

  He snorts. “Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re taking calls from your old man in the car at… what is it, eight?”

  I glance at the clock. “Eight twenty.”

  He clicks his tongue. “You know Daylight Savings is a government plot, right? They invented it so they can sneak extra hours of work out of you, like some kind of reverse Tooth Fairy.”

  I try to keep him talking. It’s the best way to ensure he keeps talking.

  “Speaking of work, are you—”

  “Still retired, thank Christ.” He laughs, even though we both know that’s not what I meant. “I spent forty years digging holes and building parking lots. They gave me a cake shaped like a hard hat and a plaque for not dying on the job. I hung it over the toilet so it sees what comes out of me after a good chili night.”

  “You and your chili,” I say. “Pretty sure you’re ninety percent beans by now.”

  “Oh, I am. Hell, the nurse calls me Mr. Bean. She thinks it’s clever, but I’m the one shitting my pants, so who’s really winning here?”

  We both laugh, too hard, and I wonder if he knows he’s saving me, not the other way around.

  Then he goes quiet. “You see your buddy Matty lately?”

  I pause. “A couple weeks ago, but it’s understandable that things aren’t like they were before. He’s got a three year old, so he’s pretty much out of the game for the next fifteen years.”

  Dad sighs. “Yeah. That’s how you lose your friends. First it’s a wedding, then it’s a baby, then it’s helping them move into a bigger place, and suddenly you’re a background character in their life story.”

  I glance at the office tower looming out the window, all mirrored glass and existential horror. I have no argument. I’m a background character to my friends. I’m a background character in my life.

  “You gotta get out more,” Dad says, and his voice is suddenly gentle. “I know you hate the ‘networking’ crap, but you need more than just me and Matty.”

  I try to joke it off. “Isn’t that what online dating is for?”

  Not that I’m doing any of that.

  It sounds like he actually spits. “Online dating is for sociopaths and people who can’t get laid in real life. You’re neither, so what’s your excuse?”

  I roll my eyes at his dated ideas. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “No, for real,” he says, stubbornly. “You work hard. You take care of me. But you’re what, twenty-seven? You don’t do anything except work and call your old man. That’s not a life, kid. That’s a sentence.”

  The car is warm now, the air stale and a little metallic. I pick at the worn steering wheel and try not to picture my future as a looping montage of empty apartments and lonely grocery shopping.

  “Look, I’m fine. Really. Work sucks but it pays the bills, and I’m not exactly dying for social engagement.” I laugh, but it comes out flat. “I’m just not built like that.”

  Or maybe I am, but I have no idea how to find people to socialize with any longer. I can’t just hang out at a bar until I make a friend. Can I?

  He says nothing for a long moment. Just the soft hum of whatever is on TV, probably Wheel of Fortune or one of the news channels he hates but can’t stop watching.

  Then he goes, “Did I ever tell you how I met your mom?”

  About once a month since I turned twelve. But I never interrupt him.

  “She was working at the auto parts store down on First. I came in with busted knuckles and asked her for brake fluid. She looked at my hands and said, “You lose a fight against your car?’”

  He laughs, then sighs. “She was a smartass. Too good for me, really.”

  My chest tightens the way it always does when he brings her up. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. After a certain number of years, you earn the right to wallow.

  “She had these—God, I miss them—she had these perfect green eyes. Like, not just green, but that, what do you call it, emerald color? Anyway, I used to stare at her for hours and never got tired of it. She’d say I was a creep. But she kept me around, so joke’s on her.”

  He laughs again, a little hollow this time.

  It happens then. The swerve.

  He goes, “Did she ever call you, uh… what was it… Sparky? Or am I making that up?”

  My stomach drops. The floor of the parking garage feels like it’s falling out from under me.

  “Dad,” I say, as gently as I can, “Mom called me ‘Scout,’ remember? You’re thinking of that dog you had as a kid.”

  He’s quiet.

  Then, in a flash, he’s angry, “No. No, I remember. I know what I’m saying. Don’t fucking correct me.”

  I wince, but I know better than to push. “Sorry, Dad. You’re right.”

  His breathing gets weird. The hum from the TV gets louder. “Why do you always do that? I say something, you tell me I’m wrong. Like you’re the goddamn memory police.”

  “I’m not, I just—”

  “You just what? Think I’m stupid? You think because I’m here I’m not me?”

  He’s off. The rage phase. It’s not about me, it never is, but that doesn’t make it suck less.

  The familiar wave of guilt rises up, cold and heavy. Why couldn’t I just let it slide? Why am I so fucking bad at this?

  “I’m not useless!” He thunders. “I’m not just some old! Stupid! Pathetic–”

  A new voice comes through the phone, young and preternaturally calm.

  “Hi, Evan? It’s Kelsey from Memory Cares. I’m here with your dad.”

  Dad is still muttering in the background, a string of profanities not meant for anyone in particular.

  “Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” she says. “He’s just having a moment. Happens to the best of us, right? Want to hold a minute while I get him settled, or do you need to get to work?”

  “I… I’m good. Thank you. Tell him I’ll call another day, okay?”

  “Of course. Have a good day, Evan.”

  She hangs up, and for a minute I sit in the car, staring at the cracked vinyl of the passenger seat. I pick at a frayed string and imagine the tiny universe inside it, a world where every phone call ends with “I love you, kid” instead of “Why do you always do that?”

  The dashboard clock ticks over to 8:35. I’m already late.

  Somewhere on another level, a car alarm blares. Nobody moves to stop it, so I try to ignore it too. Taking a deep breath, I try to tell myself that today will be different. That it’ll be better, but even I don’t believe that.

  By the time I shuffle through the garage’s concrete throat and reach the elevator, I’ve successfully convinced myself that today will be neither better nor worse than any other day of my life, which is both reassuring and devastating.

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  The elevator doors part to reveal a small flock of indistinguishable office people: Ironclad Financial badges over button-downs, haircuts that cost more than my monthly food budget, teeth engineered by money. I wedge myself between a woman from HR, her perfume is like lemon pledge with a chaser of chlorine, and a guy I vaguely recognize from IT who once made a joke about incels and then looked at me like I should high-five him.

  We ascend in the practiced silence of people who’ve spent years in vertical transportation together and still have no idea what to say. The elevator pings open on fifteen, my floor, and I spill out in their wake.

  My office building was designed to maximize despair. The lobby is an open-plan amphitheater of stress: glass walls, exposed steel beams, and polished concrete that reflects every overhead LED like a dentist’s interrogation lamp. At the far end is the security desk, where they check badges and sometimes bags if there’s been a recent incident. On the wall behind the desk, a flat-screen TV blares the news, alternating between stories about The Games and ads for antidepressants.

  I keep my head down and walk quickly, but not so quickly that I draw attention to myself. I have mastered the art of blending in, like a possum that’s learned to wear a tie.

  The badge reader beeps. I’m in.

  The first face I see is Brad. Of course.

  He’s standing with his back to the reception area, talking loudly on his cellphone about “leveraging synergy” and “triple-play market pivots.” Brad is six-four, with the pectorals of a retired linebacker and the brain of a crocodile. His hair is the color of wheat and styled with military precision. His suit probably cost more than my car.

  He sees me and covers the phone with one big hand.

  “Yo, Carter!” he says, way louder than necessary. “You finish that code for the McManus project?”

  I force a smile. “It’s in QA. Should be done by EOD.”

  He grins and winks. “Atta boy. Keep those fingers moving and you’ll make partner by, what, 2040?” He laughs and resumes his call, striding away like he owns the air.

  I don’t have the heart to tell him that “partner” isn’t a thing for programmers here, or anywhere, but it wouldn’t matter. Brad doesn’t care if I exist except as a punchline.

  I slide past the reception desk, manned by the only person in this building I would voluntarily save in a fire: Ashley. She’s on the phone, head down, twirling a pen around her fingers like a magician doing card tricks for an audience of one. Her hair is short, a kind of retro bob that makes her look like she’s starring in a French film about beautiful sadness. Her eyes are this improbable shade of gray that I have tried and failed to describe to Matt, who insists that eyes can’t really be gray, only blue or green with something wrong with the lighting.

  Today she’s wearing a green blouse with tiny gold flowers on it, the same color as my third-grade teacher’s favorite dress, which is a detail I’m careful not to mention to anyone, ever.

  She glances up and catches me staring.

  “Morning, Evan,” she says, just loud enough to prove she’s not ignoring me, but not so loud that anyone will think we’re friends.

  Heat rushes over me. Sweat dampens my palms. I’m staring. Not talking. I have to talk. To say something. Say something. “Hey, Ash,” I manage.

  She smiles, then goes back to her phone. She’s probably dealing with something important. She always is.

  I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I keep walking.

  The “open office” is a fiction. What it really means is nobody has any privacy and everyone can see you at all times. My cubicle is one of dozens in a repeating grid, broken up by conference rooms named after world capitals. I’m near “New Delhi,” which has a persistent carpet stain shaped like New Jersey. The office is alive with the sounds of keyboards, bad jokes, and the faint drone of televisions mounted at every corner, each tuned to a different live feed of The Games.

  I drop my backpack under the desk and boot up my workstation, trying to pretend the low-grade panic in my chest is just a caffeine overdose. Then, I start with my daily ritual of cleaning the trash that’s been thrown all over my cubicle by the finance bros. There’s crumpled up papers all over the floor. Empty drinks on the tables. Protein bar wrappers in every corner. Wordlessly, I pick it all up.

  All around me, the office begins its daily ritual of not quite working.

  A few cubes down, the finance bros are already getting started. I hear their voices before I see them.

  “Yo, Carter!” This time it’s Derek, who is technically my boss’s boss but looks like he’s barely old enough to drive. “You get any sleep, buddy? You look like a Nick Nolte mugshot.”

  I try to laugh. “Rough morning. You know how it is.”

  He barks a laugh and slaps the top of my cubicle as he walks by. “Hang in there, chief! Hey, you coming to the all-hands at ten? Brad says he’s got a big announcement.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, knowing full well I will spend the entire meeting imagining creative ways to die.

  He moves off toward the coffee station, where someone is already building a Jenga tower out of donuts. And finance bros are pretending to play basketball around the IT guys who are desperately trying to take their coffees and run.

  I try to focus on my screen, but my eyes keep drifting to the nearest TV, where The Games are in progress.

  Today’s arena is a rusted-out stadium in what used to be Argentina, now “Arena 1.” The announcers are hyped up, yelling about a Realmwalker who just one-shotted a mutant jaguar the size of an SUV. There are banners, sponsors, and—my favorite—live stats scrolling at the bottom, tracking everything from likes, followers, and points until audience favor is unlocked for each Realmwalker.

  I have no idea how the world pivoted from “Don’t talk to strangers” to “Let’s publicly livestream a death tournament for the fate of the planet,” but here we are. There are a hundred million people watching this right now, and a hundred thousand who are buying jerseys with each of the eight Realmwalkers names on them.

  I don’t like watching to see just how doomed our planet is, but it’s hard not to pick up little things from the games. I know all the names and classes, even if I try to forget them.

  But I do wonder, what will happen if earth doesn’t win? Will all of this just end in the blink of an eye? Will it be painful?

  I’m deep in this daydream when Brad sneaks up behind me and puts me in a headlock.

  “Jesus!” I gasp, genuinely terrified.

  “Hey, easy there, killer,” Brad says, ruffling my hair with a hand the size of a ham. “Just wanted to make sure you’re alive over here. Looks like the McManus code is crashing the test server.”

  I pull myself together. “It shouldn’t be. I tested it locally.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe your machine’s better than ours.” He grins. “You mind fixing it before ten? We’re demoing for a big client. Don’t want to look like chumps.”

  I nod, already reaching for my keyboard.

  He slaps my shoulder, a little too hard, and stands up. “Good man. Don’t sweat it.”

  He disappears, and I stare at my screen, which looks like an alien landscape. My hands are shaking.

  I take a slow breath and remind myself that this is temporary. I’m here for the paycheck. I’m here for Dad. That’s it. So he can stay in that nice facility instead of a shitty one. All I have to do is survive.

  The next hour or so crawls by in a haze of error logs, emails, and the background soundtrack of public humiliation. At one point, Ashley walks by my cube and taps the wall.

  “Hey, do you want to sign this card for Miranda’s birthday?” She’s holding a greeting card with a cartoon cat on the front.

  “Sure,” I say, taking the pen, my face hot as my hands shake.

  She waits while I scribble something generic. Our hands brush, briefly, when I give the pen back. My heart rate spikes.

  “Thanks, Evan,” she says. “You’re the only one who doesn’t write anything gross.”

  I have no idea what that means, but I smile anyway.

  After she leaves, I wonder what it would be like to just ask her to coffee. Not as a joke, not as a dare, but for real. I imagine her saying yes. I imagine us sitting together in a place with plants and sunlight, talking about nothing in particular, and not once feeling like I’m being graded.

  I know it’ll never happen. But it’s a nice thought.

  The clock rolls over to 9:57. I stand up, wipe my hands on my jeans, and head for the conference room, bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits.

  But for now, at least, I’m still here.

  The walk to the conference room is like heading for a colonoscopy you know is going to be performed in front of a live studio audience.

  The halls are lined with motivational posters—eagles, mountain peaks, one that just says “COMMITMENT” over a photo of a rower mid-stroke, face twisted in agony. I always wondered if the designers knew how close “commitment” and “committed” are on the semantic food chain. Maybe they were warning us.

  When I get to the glass-walled conference room, today it’s “Beijing,” the fun has already started. Brad and Derek are standing at the front, sleeves rolled up, shirts untucked just enough to look casual but not enough to risk HR. At the long table are the clients: five men and women in conservative suits, arranged like chess pieces with their most important guy at the center. Ashley sits at the end, legal pad in hand, pretending not to see me.

  Brad waves me in. “Yo, Carter, front and center. Our tech genius, everybody!”

  Wait, what? I sit. I watch. I don’t speak.

  “Uh.”

  He grins. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

  No, but I… they don’t have the tech guys talk at these meetings. Not unless they have to. We don’t exactly represent the company well, but as all eyes start turning to me, I realize I don’t have a choice. Maybe he just wants to introduce me. Maybe this will be over in just a minute.

  I approach, each step a minor test of willpower. My hands are sweating so much I have to wipe them on my shirt. The clients look polite but bored, probably calculating what they’ll expense for lunch. One of them, a woman with a face like she’s permanently disappointed in her children, gives me the faintest nod. The alpha.

  Brad launches into the presentation, pacing the front of the room. He’s a natural, charming, quick with a joke, somehow making “cloud-based integration suite” sound like the key to world peace. All while I stand there at the front, feeling stupid.

  Why am I up here? Is this just some new way to torture me?

  After ten minutes of this, he claps his hands. “All right! I know some of this stuff can get technical, so I brought in our lead developer. Evan, you want to walk us through the back-end?”

  There’s no way he’s forgotten my usual line about hating public speaking. This is deliberate. Maybe a hazing ritual, maybe just a joke to lighten the mood for the real people in the room.

  I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. I try again, and the word “backend” emerges, but so quietly that even I barely hear it.

  Brad helpfully puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in, like we’re co-presenters.

  “Evan’s modest,” he says. “But this guy wrote the whole platform from scratch. We literally couldn’t have done it without him.”

  My heart is pounding, hands shaking. I stare at the projected slide on the wall: a diagram of our software system with so many colored arrows that it looks like a Jackson Pollock interpretation of a panic attack.

  “Uh,” I say, “the system is modular, so you can scale up as needed. The, um, API endpoints are fully documented, and we use containerization for deployment, which… keeps things isolated and… reproducible.”

  A single bead of sweat runs down my spine. I can’t tell if I’m breathing.

  “Could you explain the, uh, security model?” the alpha client asks, with just the tiniest curl of her upper lip.

  I try. I really do. But the words all come out wrong, and I can’t remember which is the right jargon. For some reason I start talking about two-factor authentication, which is irrelevant to the question. Brad jumps in, laughs it off, and reframes the answer as “you can tell he really cares about your security.” The clients chuckle dutifully.

  The whole thing takes maybe three minutes. Three years, in my time.

  When it’s over, I feel hollowed out. Brad thanks me, gives my shoulder a final squeeze, and sends me to a seat in the back. I don’t remember walking there, but suddenly I’m staring at the table, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

  Ashley passes me a note: “You did fine :)” She’s written the smiley face with a nose, which is somehow worse.

  The rest of the meeting is a blur of buzzwords and thinly veiled one-upmanship. The clients sign off on the project, and everyone congratulates themselves. As people file out, Brad claps me on the back again. Something I’ve seriously grown to hate.

  “Seriously, Carter, don’t sweat it. Some people just aren’t cut out for the spotlight, you know?” He grins, all teeth, and heads for the break room where donuts and validation await.

  Ashley hangs back, gathering her notes. She glances at me, and for a second, her face is kind. “You really did fine,” she says. “Brad’s just… like that.”

  I try to muster a smile. “Thanks. I’m, uh, better with code than people.”

  She nods, sympathetic. “I’m better with books than people.”

  That’s hard to believe. She’s a receptionist. She’s good with people.

  I limp through the rest of the day, fixing bugs and answering emails. At 2:15 I decide nobody will notice if I leave early. I pack up and walk out without saying goodbye.

  The air outside is thick and gray, like someone put a wet towel over the city. I drive home in silence, the radio off, the hum of the engine the only sound. My phone buzzes, probably Dad, or Matt, but I ignore it.

  My apartment is exactly as I left it. Dark, cluttered, slightly damp from the malfunctioning AC. I drop my bag, peel off my shirt, and collapse on the couch.

  The TV remote is buried under a pile of old takeout menus. I dig it out and turn on The Games.

  Onscreen, a Realmwalker is fighting a creature made entirely of bone and teeth. She slices into it with a glowing blade, then vaults up its back and snaps its neck. I change the channel.

  Reaching for my phone, I decide to spring for takeout. I order a pizza, large, extra cheese, and no vegetables. I give my card information over the phone, including the tip. The delivery guy will be the same as always, but I don’t know his name. He always leaves the box outside my door so we don’t have to make eye contact.

  When it arrives, I eat four slices in two minutes, washing it down with a cheap beer from the fridge. I stare at the TV, not really watching. I feel like I’m made of cardboard and regret.

  Whatever show was on ends. There’s a highlight reel of the top Realmwalkers. They’re all different from when they first started, somehow becoming less human and more muscular and rugged-looking. But, I guess, most of them weren’t exactly warriors to start. The System chooses people at random, after all. The announcers talk about their stats like they’re baseball players, but with more blood.

  I wonder, briefly, what would happen if I was chosen. If The System plucked me out of my miserable life and dropped me into the Arena. Would I die instantly, or just hide until everyone else did the job for me? Would Dad even notice I was gone?

  I finish the pizza and leave the box open on the floor.

  On TV, a Realmwalker is kneeling in the sand, blood streaming down her face. The live people voice-over it all, speaking with excitement. Commenting about how her likes and followers are building like crazy. Like that’s the most important thing. Like this is actually entertainment instead of a sick game meant to determine which worlds live and which ones die.

  I turn the volume down, close my eyes, and try to think about nothing.

  If Earth loses, I decide, maybe it won’t be the worst thing.

  Maybe we deserve it.