A Day in the Life

"Haaugh," I say, yawning. Mornings have gotten harder as I've gotten older, though to be honest, they were never my favorite.

I sit up and stretch my limbs, feeling the slight twinge in my elbow that's become so familiar over the years. Yawning a second time, I finally stand up and hobble downstairs.

"Good morning," my butler, Gordon, says to me as I reach the bottom ground floor. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Rhmm," I grumble. I don't mean to be so short, but I'm never fully awake before breakfast. Gordon leads the way into the dining room where breakfast is waiting for me. It's a simple meal of dry cereal, along with a few prescription pills for chronic ailments on the side. I'd gotten a taste for a crunchy breakfast years ago before I retired, and eating it now reminds me of my younger days.

It was in my younger days when I had considered a different path in life, one with time for romance. I let my mind drift back to that day in the park: that day when I met him. I had gone to the park for a run, as I had many times before and would many times after. I rounded a bend and there he was: the most magnificent creature I had ever laid eyes on.

He was tall and muscular with jet black hair and dark brown eyes. As he got close to me, the wind shifted and I got a whiff of his natural musk, and it was intoxicating. I caught his attention (as a petite blonde, I tend to stand out, even now), and he slowed down. Our eyes locked and it felt like I was looking into his soul, just as he was into mine. In a moment, I was ready to give up everything and run away with him. And as silly as it may seem, I could tell he would do the same thing for me. But then reality came crashing in: I couldn't run off. Too many people relied on me. As heartbreaking as it was, I knew that it could never be. He seemed to understand and he nodded, his eyes glistening with moisture. We both started our runs again, this time away from one another. After that, I changed my route to avoid running into him, but every now and again, the wind would blow just right and I would smell him.

I shake myself out of my fantasy and back to the present. I finish my breakfast and wander into the den. Just as I get comfortable on the couch, Elizabeth, my driver walks in.

"Time for your doctor's appointment," she says, in a tone that feels a bit too enthusiastic. I sigh and get up, stretching once more. Elizabeth helps me with my coat and leads the way to the car.

Thankfully, this is just an annual exam and not anything serious. Other than some more medication for my elbow, I'm sent away with a clean bill of health.

After getting home, I decide to take a nap—don't judge me! I'm old and retired and I can use my time any way I like. I drift off to sleep and dream of frolicking in the woods behind my estate. Gordon and Elizabeth are there, too, but instead of being my servants, they're my parents. Suddenly, I'm out of the woods and I'm a child, playing with my brothers and sisters at the orphanage. My favorite brother (whose name I've since forgotten), is taken away to be adopted. I call after him to not leave me, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I try to shout louder and louder and—

I wake up with a start, jumping out of bed and standing before realizing what was happening. I shake my head, the dream fading from my mind and my memory. I stretch again and wander downstairs.

I find Gordon and tell him that I'm ready for my afternoon constitutional. While I could go alone, I enjoy Gordon's company. And, if I'm being honest, I'm old enough that if I were to take a spill, it could be serious, so bringing him with me is just prudent.

The sunshine feels good on my face and I smile. I may not be able to run anymore, but I'm still invigorated by a walk around the estate grounds. I pause a few times to smell the flowers—the tulips in particular—before completing a loop around the property and returning to the house.

Back inside, I hydrate and return to the den. Gordon offers to help me, but I brush him off. I may be an old lady, but I hate being treated like one. I doze on the couch, though I don't really fall asleep.

I snap out of my daze to the aroma of my dinner. From the smell of it, I'd say it's lamb and rice, with a beef reduction, and a side of carrots. I follow my nose into the dining room and discover that I am, as usual, correct. I eat quickly, not wanting a moment to pass by without the delicious food in my mouth.

"Hic!" I hiccup. I hate when this happens! But my chef is so talented that dinner usually ends with me hiccupping. It's more embarrassing than anything else, but I know they'll pass soon, so I try not to think about it.

With my belly full, I climb the stairs and curl up in bed. As I feel sleep creep up on me, I can't help but feel happy with my life and content with how things turned out.

"What do you think she dreams about?" I hear Elizabeth ask, just as I'm on the edge of sleep.

"I don't know," Gordon replies, "whatever's on her mind, I guess. She's a pretty spoiled dog, so maybe she's going on a walk?"

"I hope she's dreaming about us," Elizabeth says as I cross over into unconsciousness. "I hope she's happy that we rescued her and made this her forever home."

Delivery

Mark’s phone chimed. He looked at the caller ID: Client K. He let the phone ring twice more before answering.

"Yes?" he answered.

"I need you to pick up a package at 1700 Douglas Avenue, suite C," a female voice said, "and deliver it to 3821 Fairbanks Street by three o'clock."

"I'm not an errand boy," Mark said, annoyed. "If you need a package delivered, call the post office."

Mark was about to hang up when the caller quickly spoke up.

"Please," she said, her voice in a panic. "I wouldn't call you, but I don't have anyone else to turn to. I'm desperate."

Mark tapped the table he was sitting at, thinking. He knew from experience that desperate people tended to have deep pockets. He also knew that the payment usually wasn’t worth the trouble they had gotten themselves in. Still, he was curious.

"How desperate?" he asked.

"I'll pay you triple your usual fee,” she said hurriedly, likely afraid that if she didn't get her words out quickly, Mark wouldn't stay on the line to hear her say them.

Mark did some quick calculations in his head. "It's nearly two now," he said. "Even if I wanted to help you, getting to Douglas and then Fairbanks in an hour isn't possible. Sorry."

"Five times!" Client K said. "Please!"

"I suppose," Mark said, letting the words slowly fall out of his mouth, "I could lend a hand just this once."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed.

"This is the only time I will do something like this," Mark said, pointedly. "Don't bother asking again."

"I won't," the woman said solemnly. "Your payment is being transferred now."

Mark hung up the phone and slipped it into his suit jacket's interior breast pocket. Moving quickly, he got up from the table, went to his bedroom closet, pushed all of the hanging clothes to one side, and flipped a switch hidden on the backside of clothes rod. The rear wall silently slid away, revealing an assortment of weapons. Having never done a delivery job, he was unsure of what to take. He opted for a single Glock 17, which he stored in the holster on the back of his belt, obscuring it from view with his jacket. Returning his closet to its starting position, Mark went to the garage.

He considered a motorcycle since he'd be able to split lanes, but since he was delivering something, he probably needed a trunk. The Lamborghini was his fasted car, but it was likely too large and too conspicuous (the client hadn't asked for discretion, but that was Mark's default for his work). Ultimately, he got in the driver's seat of his Mini Cooper and drove off.

By the time he was on the main road, it was 1:59. Mark didn't ask questions about the who's and why's of his jobs, he just did what needed doing. Still, he couldn't help but be curious what was so important about this package and why it needed to be delivered in an hour's time. Douglas Ave was near the docks, which the Russian mafia controlled, though Mark wasn't sure if their influence reached as far west as Douglas.

Mark weaved through traffic, going at least twenty over the speed limit. He drove without any music playing so he could focus more of his attention on the job. He wasn’t sure if that made sense, but it helped him feel as if he was more alert, so he drove in silence.

He arrived at Douglas Ave at 2:17, one minute ahead of the loose schedule he had in his head. He was surprised when he pulled up to 1700C to see that it was a bakery. Must be a front or something, Mark reasoned. He parked the car and walked in.

A chime sounded as Mark opened the front door. The bakery was small and filled every available space with display cases showcasing the day's assortment of breads and pastries. A young woman in a flour specked apron came out of the door that led to the back, the door swinging back and forth behind her. Her black hair was in a messy bun with a hairnet on top and she was wiping her hands on the towel that hung from the waist pocket of her apron.

"Welcome to Sunny Day Bakery," she said with a smile. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here to pick up a package," Mark said simply.

"Ah, yes," the woman said, nodding. "I was told you'd be coming. Please wait right here."

The woman disappeared into the back again. Almost immediately, she returned, carrying a pink cardstock box that was fastened with white string. She passed it to Mark, instructing him to support the bottom.

"Have a sunny day!" the woman said enthusiastically as she waved goodbye and headed through the swinging door to the back of the shop.

It has to be a front, Mark thought as he got back in the car. I probably have drugs or diamonds or something. I mean, who would suspect a cute, little bakery, right? He laid the box on the passenger seat and drove off.

He got back on the road and headed towards Fairbanks St. Mark looked at the clock on his dashboard: 2:20. He had expected to merely walk in, get the package and walk out, so the minute that he had gained on his trip to the bakery was gone. At least he wasn't behind, he thought.

Suddenly, he saw lights flash his rearview mirror. It was an unmarked police car, the blue and red lights coming from inside the front grill, just above the bumper. He looked at his speedometer: he was doing 75 in a 50. He considered stopping, but he’d never make his delivery time by then. He sped off.

The police car added a siren to the lights and gave chase. Mark's Mini was faster than the standard-issue Impala behind him—he had made some changes to his car, so his top speed was around 165—but the police officer had the advantage of getting the surrounding traffic to move out of the way. Mark whipped around cars, putting some distance between him and the cop, though not as much as he needed. He cut off a white minivan and made a right off the main road onto a residential street. He drove straight long enough to see if the cop had seen him turn. The car appeared about three-quarters of a mile behind him. He quickly made a left turn, followed by two rights and another left, scanning driveways as he drove. After another right turn, he found what he was looking for and backed into a long driveway, parked behind the large RV sitting there, and cut the engine.

How long should he sit there? Mark was now behind schedule by nearly three minutes. He could likely make that up, but he needed to get moving. He anxiously tapped the steering wheel with his middle finger and thumb, bouncing his hand back and forth. After nearly a minute of waiting, he decided the coast was clear and started the engine.

Mark pulled out of the driveway and made his way back to the main road. He wasn't familiar with this neighborhood and turned into a cul-de-sac before leaving the housing development. Just as he was turning onto the main street, the cop appeared behind him. You’ve got to be kidding me, Mark thought, shaking his head. He floored it.

Rather than try to lose the cop immediately, Mark just drove as fast as he could towards the drop-off point. It wasn't that simple, of course. The cop would undoubtedly call for backup and if Mark stayed on the most direct route, they'd likely cut him off or put down a spike strip. No, Mark had to keep them guessing as much as possible: head down Roland for eight blocks, cut across Colorado, double-back up Summit for three, before heading down a narrow alley and then back down Roland.

As Mark drove like this, two squad cars joined in the chase. Before long, Mark was finally only a few blocks away from the drop-off. It was going to be close, especially since these cops were on his tail like a rattle on a snake. Every turn he made, they were close enough behind him that he couldn't lose them. Mark realized that he was going to have to ditch his Mini soon and finish on foot, a fact he found incredibly annoying. He turned down a narrow street and saw that a large moving truck was backing up to a high rise apartment. He drove as fast as he could: if he could squeeze past the truck before it blocked the street, he'd have enough of a lead that he could ditch the cops; if he couldn’t, things were going to get ugly.

Mark gripped the wheel tightly as he drove on to the sidewalk and pressed down on the gas. Time seemed to stand still as moved his car close enough to the building that sparks flew from the his passenger side mirror before it was torn away. He held his breath as he slid past the truck, clipping the edge of the liftgate. The driver's side mirror flew off just as he cleared the truck. He looked in his remaining mirror to see the unmarked car try to make the same maneuver and get wedged between the building and the truck. Mark breathed out and turned down Sullivan, one block away from his destination.

He parked the car on the street before reaching into the glovebox and pulling out a dark brown wig and matching moustache. He removed the plastic backing from the 'stache, pressed the sticky side against his face, and slid the wig over his own red locks. He also retrieved a pair of aviator sunglasses from the compartment and pressed an unseen button near the top. He grabbed the package from its place on the passenger seat and exited the vehicle. He walked quickly, though not too quickly, down the sidewalk, turning at his first chance. Once around the corner, Mark pressed the automatic starter on his car's key fob, triggering the car to explode. He put the keys in his pants' pocket and kept walking.

Mark rang the bell of 3821 Fairbanks St at exactly 3:00. A petite middle-aged woman with short blonde hair answered the door of the stately townhouse.

"You made it!" she exclaimed, a look of relief washing across her face as soon as she laid eyes on Mark—or, more likely, the package Mark held. She reached out to take the pink box from him, but Mark held it just out of reach.

"There were complications," he said. "I want half again as much as we discussed."

The woman was taken aback. "That's not what we agreed."

"I agreed to take the job with the assumption that this would be a simple delivery," Mark said, his patience long since dried up. "Like I said, there were complications."

"It's not my fault you assumed this would be easier than it turned out," she said, reaching out for the box again, only for Mark to pull it away again.

"And it's not my fault that you need whatever's in this box. Pay me the new amount, I hand it over, we’re both happy."

The woman's eyes narrowed as she mulled over Mark's ultimatum. "Fine," she said, exasperated. She reached into her back pants' pocket and pulled out a smartphone. After a few taps, she returned the phone and told Mark that the payment had been made. Satisfied, Mark held the box out for the woman to take.

Just then, a silver-haired man appeared behind the woman.

"Honey, what's taking so long?" he asked her. "Is the birthday cake here? The kids are getting antsy."

The woman snatched the box away from Mark and passed it to the man behind her.

"The delivery driver just got here with it," she said, giving Mark a pointed look. Mark faced the man, a tight-lipped smile on face, and nodded.

"Perfect timing, son," the man, in a tone that struck Mark as an odd combination of appreciative and condescending. The man disappeared into the townhouse, leaving Mark and the woman alone once more.

"It was just a cake?" Mark asked through gritted teeth.

"I thought you didn't ask questions," she said after a pause.

"I'm asking this one," Mark said, spitting out his words. "Did I just deliver a cake?"

"I said I was desperate," she said, throwing her hands up. "My assistant had the nerve to shatter her pelvis and I was too busy to get the cake myself."

Mark sighed, shaking his head. "Lose my number. I'm not taking any more jobs from you. You're not worth the trouble."

Misprint

Floyd reviewed the customer's order. Experience had taught him that it was worth the time it took to do a quick proofread before printing however many copies were ordered. Seeing an error in the headline, he grabbed his red pen and marked the copy: the customer had transposed a couple of words. Strangely, he noticed that the same error kept appearing throughout the document. Could it be that what Floyd assumed was an error was actually correct? Deciding to play it safe, he swiveled his chair around, picked up his desk phone, and dialed the client's number.

"Hello," the friendly voice on the other end of the line greeted, "this is Andrew."

"Hey, Andrew," Floyd replied. "This is Floyd over at Showalter Printing."

"Hi, Floyd," Andrew said warmly. "How're the brochures coming along?"

"That's actually what I’m calling about" Floyd said, happy to get to the point so quickly, "I was doing a quick review of the proof you submitted and I came across this weird error: every instance of your organization's name is listed as 'The Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention.' I think whoever made this up, their computer has a glitch in the autocorrect."

"There's no error," Andrew said, still warmly, though some weariness had entered his voice. "We are indeed the Quinton J. Bromberg Society for Suicide Awareness Prevention. I know, most people expect it to be 'suicide prevention awareness,' but we're the other way 'round."

"Wait," Floyd said, confused, "you guys try to get be people to commit suicide?! That's horrible!"

"Not at all," Andrew said, the exhaustion in his voice belying the fact that this was not his first time having this conversation. "We work to prevent the public from being aware that suicide exists at all. When Mr. Bromberg passed away, he left instructions in his will that a sizable portion of his substantial wealth should go to establish this nonprofit. So, we do our best to fulfill his wishes.

"To be clear," Andrew added, "we don't lie to anyone or try to convince anyone that suicide doesn't happen. Instead, we target individuals who have never heard of suicide to begin with and work to keep it that way."

"Are you sure he didn't make a mistake when writing his will?" Floyd asked, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

"That," Andrew said, as if by rote, "is almost certainly the case. After speaking with his widow and those who knew him, we are quite certain that Mr. Bromberg simply mistyped his wishes in his will. Unfortunately, our lawyers have made it very clear that we must uphold the wording as it appears in his last will and testament."

"That's awful," Floyd said, surprised by his own candidness. "I mean," he stumbled, trying to recover, "I'm surprised that your entire organization is founded on a mistake. Why is his family not fighting it?"

"Oh, they are," Andrew said, sounding a bit more cheerful. "Particularly his widow. I hope she succeeds and shuts us down. Do you have any idea how hard it is to prevent people from learning about suicide? It's basically impossible."

"Why not just shut down your organization on your own?" offered Floyd. "Why wait for Mrs. Bromberg to do it?"

"The founding of this society was a stipulation for other charities to receive funding," Andrew said, the weariness in voice growing again. "If we close our doors, several actually worthwhile groups will have to pay back their funds. At least, until Mary Ellen wins her case and is able to convince a judge that this organization exists against her late husband's wishes. I believe the next hearing is in about four months, so, fingers crossed!"

Floyd thought about what he'd been hearing, his initial shock replaced with sympathy. And by the sound in his voice, Andrew had had to explain this same story plenty of times already. Instead of being angry, he felt sorry for the guy.

"That sounds rough," he offered lamely. "Well, I guess I've got what I need. I'll print up these brochures and send them to the address we have on file. Sorry to bother you."

"It's fine," Andrew said, sighing slightly. "I'm used to it."

Summons

Brian returned the contents of his jeans' pockets as he walked away from the security detail at the entrance of the courthouse. Since this was his first time going to jury duty since moving to his new place, he wasn't sure where he needed to go. He pulled the summons from his jacket pocket to see if he could decipher the instructions now that he was physically in the building, but it was no use. Brian looked around for someone he could ask for help and saw a woman behind a desk a little ways away, just in front of the elevators. Brian walked towards her.

"Um, excuse me," Brian said to the young woman sitting behind the desk. She appeared to be in her early twenties, had dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and was wearing a plain yet professional-looking blouse. "Can you…?" he started, but paused. The woman's breathing was labored, she had a far-off look in her eyes, and she had a light sheen of sweat on her face despite the cool temperature of the lobby. "Are you okay?"

"What they don't tell you," the woman said breathlessly, not making eye contact with Brian, "is that a small order of cheesy breadsticks is still supposed to be for, like, four people." Brian looked down at the desk and saw a large, greasy piece of waxed paper laid out, showing the crumby remnants of, apparently, a small order of cheesy breadsticks.

"I'm here for jury duty," Brian said, cutting to the chase.

"You're in the right place," she replied, still slightly out of breath and still staring off into space.

"Right," Brian said slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Where do I go next?"

"What's your summons say?" she asked, raising her head to face Brian, though with her eyes closed.

"I don't know," Brian replied, the annoyance in his voice becoming more obvious. "I couldn't make sense of it."

"Let's see it" the woman said, extending her hand but keeping her eyes closed. Brian handed the paper to her and she finally opened her eyes to examine it. As soon as she laid her eyes on the paper, she held it back up to Brian. "This isn't your summons: it's the instructions that came with your summons. Did you bring your actual summons with you?"

"Look," Brian said, fed up with this woman’s behavior, "I couldn't make sense of the terrible instructions, but I brought the piece of paper that actually has 'summons' printed across the top. Now you’re telling me that the summons is the one without 'summons' on it?"

"Sir," the woman said a bit condescendingly, finally making eye contact, "there's no need to get an attitude."

Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Since I don't have the summons," he asked, looking back at the woman, "what do I do?"

"You'll need to go subbasement C and get a replacement summons," the woman said with what seemed to Brian to be a sarcastic smile. She gestured behind her. "You can take the elevators or," pointing behind Brian, "the stairs. Have a nice day."

Hoping that walking would help him blow off steam, Brian took the stairs.

After six flights—a main level, two basement levels, a garage level, and two subbasement levels—Brian finally arrived at the highly anticipated subbasement C. While the walk had helped him cool down a little, he was still pretty annoyed. Opening the heavy door that separated the stairwell from the rest of the floor, the first thing Brian noticed was the faint smell: stale booze mixed with just a hint of bleach. An outdoor public bathroom on a hot day is far worse, but it still wasn't something he was prepared for. He stepped out of the stairwell and heard his shoes peel off the sticky floor. Brian looked down and saw a dried puddle below his feet with a disconcerting red color. Trying not to think about what he could be stepping in, he headed down the hall.

Unlike on the main floor or in the stairwell, the fluorescent lights of subbasement C had a sickeningly green tint to them. Plus, it seemed like every fifth light was flickering. Along with the smell and the sound of his shoes, still sticky from the mysterious puddle, it all made for a truly unnerving experience.

Brian stopped in front of a room directory to see where he needed to go. Some of the letters had fallen off and laid on the ground. According to the sign, only four rooms were on subbasement C: A chives I, Arch  s II,  rchives I I, and Sum ons Rei sue. Thankfully, the room numbers were intact, so Brian headed down the hall looking for room C-13.

After walking for several minutes, Brian reached room C-13. Except, there were two C-13s: C-13a and C-13b. The doors faced each other from either sides of the hall. Not sure what else to do, he opened the door to C-13a. Well, he tried to open the door, but it was locked. So was C-13b. Shaking his head in confusion, Brian knocked on b and then a. No answer.

Just as Brian was turning to walk back towards the stairs, C-13b's door opened. An elderly man with thinning hair; thick, black-rimmed glasses; and wild, unkempt eyebrows poked his head out. He did not look happy.

"Yeah?" the man demanded. "What do you want?"

"I need my summons reissued," Brian blurted out, wanting to just have this day over with.

"You need room C-13 down the hall," the elder man said, pointing with his thumb farther down the hall. He started to close the door, but Brian stuck in his toe in and held it open.

"Isn't this room C-13b?" Brian asked, confused.

"Yeah," the man said in a patronizing tone through the small opening, "and C-13 is down the hall. Now if you don't mind…" The man pointedly looked at Brian's foot.

"Fine," Brian said, retracting the appendage. The door closed immediately and a click indicated the lock sliding in place.

Brian continued down the hall, looking, once again, for C-13. Fortunately, he soon found it about fifty feet from where he had spoken to the elderly gentleman. He tried the doorknob and, miraculously, it wasn't locked. Relieved, he opened the door and stepped through.

And down. The room was about one step lower than the hall.

"Aaagh!!" Brian screamed, barely catching his balance before he fell on his face. Something inside him snapped. He was beyond frustrated, beyond angry, beyond furious. He didn't know what to label what he was feeling, but he knew he was losing the grip on his sanity.

"Can I help you?" a concerned voice called out. Brian looked up to see a middle-aged woman with short, red hair and blue, horn-rimmed glasses standing behind a counter.

Brian looked at the woman, his breathing heavy. "Summons reissue," he said tersely. "Can you help me?"

"Certainly," she said turning towards the computer on the counter. "I just need to see your driver's license." Brian fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his license, and laid it on the counter. The woman picked up and paused. "Is this your current address?" she asked after a few seconds.

"Yes," Brian replied. "I moved there about a year-and-a-half ago."

"Hmm," the woman said as she typed something into her computer. "It looks like there's been an error," she said at last. “You're outside this court's jurisdiction, so apparently you were issued your original summons by mistake."

"Does that mean I can leave?" Brian asked, barely concealing his excitement.

"It does," the woman said, nodding.

Brian was so relieved, he nearly collapsed on the floor. After so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much Sisyphean effort, he was finally free from this personal hell. With a sign of relief and smile on his face, Brian turned to leave.

"Sir," the woman said behind him, "you'll be issued your release as soon as you visit the Service Release department on the fifth floor.”

Brian stared at the woman. Of course this miserable trip wasn't over yet; that would be too easy! "I'm sorry?" he finally managed to get out.

"You need to be released from service today or you'll be issued a fine." The woman pulled a sheet of paper from an unseen shelf below the counter and held out it out to Brian. He hesitated. Maybe if he didn't take the sheet, the woman would take care of it for him and he could just leave. Eventually, the inevitable happened: Brian took the paper. After all, she was a seasoned professional in torment and he was merely her latest victim.

"Fifth floor?" Brian asked, a shell of the man he was when entered the building that morning.

"That's right," the woman said with a smile. "Have a nice day."

The Solution

The goat stared blankly ahead—or at least as best as it could with its eyes on the sides of its head—and occupied itself by chewing on some grass near the post it was tied to. Gregor carefully untied the rope from the post and led the goat to the nearby altar.

Once at the altar, Gregor put the goat in a headlock and, leaning in hard with his substantial bodyweight, swung the goat to the ground. Startled, the goat started bleating and kicking in protest, though Gregor was experienced enough to avoid the worst of the animal's flails. Kneeling on the goat to keep it from escaping, Gregor wrangled with its legs—first the back, then the front—and tied them together with thick twine. With its limbs immobilized, Gregor lifted the animal and gently placed it in the center of the altar.

While the animal wrestling was the most physically demanding part of the process, it was straightforward. The next step was always a bit trickier, at least Gregor thought so. He lit the candles that were placed at strategic points on the outer edge of the round altar. The light of the flames danced warmly, invitingly, against the dark wood of the altar. He walked back to the nearby fence, pulled on the waiting black robe, and raised the hood, which almost completely covered his face.

Back at the altar, Gregor bent down to reach the shelf underneath, rising again a moment later holding a ceremonial dagger. The golden hilt was encrusted with gemstones and the blade, which was nearly as long as his forearm, gleamed in the candlelight.

Gregor moved into position near the goat’s head—it was still trying to wiggle out of its bonds, though it wasn't finding any success. Clutching the dagger in both hands, Gregor closed his eyes and spoke quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

"Domine, occidere est creatura. Confirma me: et quo reo hominem et impleta est vita!"

As the final words left his lips, Gregor held the goat's head still with his left hand and sliced its throat with the blade in his right. Blood gushed out from the animal's neck, flowing to the edges of the altar and spilling onto the ground below. The goat tried bleating again, but its larynx had been severed, so the only sound it made was an unsettling gurgling as the life drained out of it. In less than a minute, the creature was dead.

With the sacrifice complete, Gregor carefully pulled the robe over his head, turning it inside out as he removed it—keeping any blood that splattered on the robe—before walking back to the fence. Once at the fence, he placed the robe across the top rung before walking around the edge of the altar, blowing out each candle as he reached it. With the goat lying in its gore and the candles extinguished, Gregor lifted the latch that held the gate closed and stepped through.

Outside of the fenced area, Gregor walked out the door of the shed and closed it behind him. Back in the sunshine, Gregor did a quick inspection of his clothes for any stray blood. Finding none, he made his way up the hill. As he walked, he grumbled softly to himself, complaining about the heat of the day. At the hill's summit, he pulled his name badge out of his shirt pocket and swiped it across the RFID reader. After a beep and an audible click, Gregor pulled open the door and walked into the office building.

Back in his office, Gregor found that the laptop he had been working on and turned it on—it still wasn't connecting to WIFI. He grumbled annoyedly and picked up his desk phone. He pulled a Post-it Note off of the laptop and dialed the four-digit extension number written on it.

"Hello," the voice on the other end said, "this is Michael."

"Hey, Michael," Gregor replied. "This is Greg from IT. I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to fix your laptop. I'll have to order you a new one."

"Aw, really?" Michael asked disappointedly. "There isn't anything else you can try?"

"Believe me," Gregor said, sighing slightly. "I've tried absolutely every possible solution."

Lunchtime

"Hey, Charlie," Ralph said as his coworker took a seat next to him.

"Hiya, Ralph," Charlie said, putting his brown paper lunch sack on the cafeteria table.

"Whatcha got for lunch today?" Ralph asked, making conversation.

"Pastrami on rye," Charlie said as he pulled a sandwich, still wrapped in butcher paper from the deli, from the sack.

"Nice!" Ralph said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You go to Petrucci's?"

"Nah," Charlie said as he unwrapped his sandwich. "Went to a deli that Rick recommended. Some place called Applegate's."

"Never heard of 'em," Ralph said, picking at his reheated meatloaf leftovers. "They new?"

"I guess," Charlie said, shrugging. He picked up one half of his sandwich, which had been cut diagonally, and took a bite. The sandwich was stacked high with thinly sliced meat and included spicy brown mustard and a healthy portion of sauerkraut. Even though the sandwich had been made about ten minutes prior, the meat was still warm, the toppings still cool, and the bread wasn’t the least bit soggy.

Ralph watched as Charlie bit into the sandwich, envious of his friend’s lunch. However, as Charlie took the first bite, he change: the color drained from his face and dark circles surrounded his eyes, his fingertips turned a ghastly gray and his nails nearly black, his dark brown hair darkened until it was jet black, and his normally plump build shrank until he was gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. The change was complete almost instantly.

Ralph, not believing what he was seeing, blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, Charlie looked normal again.

"You feelin' okay?" Ralph asked.

"Yeah, why?" Charlie said, his mouth full.

"This is gonna sound crazy," Ralph said, "but you looked like you died for a second."

"Oh, that," Charlie said, nodding to himself. "So, the thing with Applegate's is, by eating their food, I've sold my everlasting soul to the devil and will spend all of eternity being tortured in hell."

Ralph's eyebrows shot up in shock. "You sold your soul for a sandwich?"

Charlie nodded as he took another bite.

"Was it worth it?" asked Ralph, still in shock. "How's the sandwich?"

"I'm not gonna lie," Charlie said between chews, "this is one killer sandwich. I'll probably go there again tomorrow."

Ralph stared at his now-damned friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. He shook his head and looked back at his own lunch. After a moment, he looked back at Charlie, who was clearly enjoying his lunch.

Ralph asked: "Mind picking me up one?"

Change of Plans

Vrrt! Vrrt!

Connor tightened the final bolt on the machine with his pneumatic wrench. After over a decade of researching, prototyping, and testing, he was finally ready to be the very first person to travel back in time.

Despite wanting to immediately start his chronal journey, Connor knew that he had to look the part if he didn’t want to arouse suspicions in the past. He left the shed in the backyard that functioned as his workshop and headed inside the house to change his clothes.

“Greta,” Connor called out to his digital assistant as he walked through the backdoor in the kitchen, “call Beatrice’s cell phone.”

“I’m sorry,” Greta cheerfully replied as Connor climbed the stairs to his bedroom, “calls to Beatrice have been blocked from this number. Would you like me to try to contact Beatrice some other way?”

“Greta,” Connor replied as he pulled off his coveralls, “has Beatrice blocked me from emailing her?”

“Let me check,” Greta replied with her perpetually chipper, albeit artificial, voice. “No, Beatrice has not blocked you from sending her emails.”

Connor sighed, a resigned smile sidling onto his face. “Well, at least there’s that.” He paused a moment as he struggled with his garters. “Why did men ever wear these stupid things?” he said to himself. “Was it really that embarrassing to have slouchy socks?” After finally securing in place the pair of what he saw as completely ridiculous articles of clothing, he spoke to his electronic servant. “Greta, start a new email to Beatrice.”

“New email started to Beatrice,” replied the disembodied voice emanating from a hidden speaker. “Begin speaking for dictation.”

“Dear Beatrice,” Connor spoke, buttoning his period-appropriate shirt. “I hope you’re well. I know things have been, well, bad between us since the breakup. Still,” he continued, pulling on his trousers and suspenders, “I genuinely hope things are working out for you. Anyway,” he said, bending down to tie his shoes, “I’m writing to let you know that it’s finished: I’m about to travel back in time.” He paused for a moment, both to trigger to Greta to start a new paragraph and to allow him to adjust the shoulder holster and the Luger pistol in it.

“I know you don’t believe in me,” he said, looking in the mirror on the wall as he tied his necktie into a single-Windsor knot, “but I’m about to change history. Though if I’m successful,” he added, partly to himself, as he slid on his suit jacket, concealing his weapon, “you won’t be aware anything is different. Even so, I wanted you to know that I’m finally doing this. See you on the other side. Sincerely, Connor. Greta, send email.”

“Email sent,” Greta sounded, her voice annoyingly happy at such a somber moment. Connor thanked the machine, trigging it to go into standby mode until its name was spoken again.

With the final addition of his overcoat, hat, and briefcase, Connor headed downstairs and back out to his workshop. He paused and scanned the room, trying to memorize the placement of every object, in case anything would be different when he returned. With a final deep breath, he opened the door on the side of the nearly spherical time machine.

“Off to kill Hitler, are you?” an English-accented female voice said behind him. “Classic move, that.”

Connor whipped around, causing his hat to fly off his head. The speaker was an adult woman of average height and indiscriminate age and race, her short hair cropped close to her head. She was wearing an unbuttoned khaki trench coat over what looked like a gray jumpsuit and plain gray sneakers. She stood just inside the door of the workshop with her hands in the pockets of her coat.

“Who are you?” Connor demanded. He considered pulling out his gun, but he decided to keep the fact that he was armed a secret for the time being. However, he did move the briefcase to his left hand, allowing him to reach his gun at a moment’s notice. “How do you know what I’m about to do?”

“Well,” the woman said in manner that struck Connor as surprisingly casual, “I’m with the Timeline Protection Authority or TPA. I know you’ve never heard of us because we don’t exist yet, but our job is to stop yahoos like you from going around and mucking with history.”

“Wait,” Connor said, holding up his hand as he processed what he just heard. “You’re here to stop me?”

“Got it in one,” she said, nodding slightly.

“So,” Connor said, his voice a mixture of confusion and annoyance, “you can go back in time to talk to me, but I’m not allowed to go back in time to stop mankind’s greatest monster?”

“Firstly,” she said, “Hitler is not mankind’s greatest monster. That was Vorn the Cruel from the Yarfle Empire, but the Yarflers only wrote on wax blocks, which don’t hold up very well, so they’ve been completely lost to history. Secondly, yes, I’m disrupting the timeline by being here, but you’ll disrupt it loads more if you kill Hitler.”

“Surely any changes I make will be for the better,” Connor reasoned.

“Not in the least,” the woman said dismissively. “Look, I realize this is all new to you, but I’ve done this plenty of times. If you kill Hitler, things will be worse off.”

“Okay,” Connor said, closing the door to the time machine, both annoyed and curious, “convince me. What bad stuff’s going to happen if I kill Hitler?” He walked over to his work table, set his briefcase down on it and sat on the lone stool in front of it.

“Fair enough,” the woman said, leaning back against the door frame, her hands still in her pockets. “How were you planning on doing it? Got a bomb in the briefcase? Going to leave it someplace you know he’ll be? Maybe at a rally when he was rising to power?”

“Uh,” Connor stumbled, shock written across his face. “Got it in one.”

“Think you might look a bit suspicious? Not too many black men in Germany in those days, you know.”

“True,” Connor conceded, “but historical data shows that while small, there was a population of Germans of African descent in Germany at the time. I’m sure people will notice me, but so what? As long as they don’t stop me, I don’t care if I turn a few heads.”

“Right, because Nazis are so well known for being racially tolerant,” the woman said sarcastically. “Trust me when I say that you won’t get near him and it’ll end rather poorly for you.”

“Fine,” Connor said, the annoyance in his voice growing. “I’ll go back and kill him when he’s in prison before he ever became involved in politics.”

“Another popular choice,” the woman said, a wry smile on her face. “You ever hear about how good ol’ Adolf got to where he was because of a power vacuum in Germany at the time?”

“Of course,” Connor said a bit incredulously.

“Well, there are a couple of options for what would have happened instead. If you get to him too late, Mister Tiny Moustache will still be able to talk to enough of his fellow inmates and when he dies in prison under mysterious circumstances, he’ll becomes a bit of a martyr and his ideas’ll spread. Once Hitler’s particular philosophies make it the general public, who’ll comes across them but none other than Heinrich Himmler. Turns out, Himmler is just as much of a wanker on his own as he was under Hitler, but Hitler actually kept him somewhat in check—shocking, I know. If Himmler assumes power, the war will be delayed by a few years, but it’ll last years longer and the death toll will be about doubled.

“Alternatively, if you kill the Reichster early enough into his prison sentence, Germany will stay weak and World War II will never happen.”

“There you go!” Connor said, feeling vindicated.

“Instead,” she continued, pointedly, “the Great Japanese Conquest takes place. Instead of just conquering east Asia, the Japanese will keep going and capture Russia and the rest of eastern Europe. By the time Pearl Harbor is attacked and the US joins the war, Japanese forces will have conquered all of Europe except for Great Britain, though it falls soon afterwards. The US will manage to fight back longer than any other country, lasting until the mid-1970s, but just like everyone else, you Yanks will eventually surrender.”

“So we’ll never develop nuclear weapons?” Connor asked. “That’s good.”

“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “the bombs will still be made and dropped on Japan. That’ll piss them right off, it will. They’ll send even more troops to attack US soil—yeah, you lot will actually have to deal with the war on your own land—and they’ll eventually get their hands on plans for atomic bombs. They’ll end up leveling San Diego, New York, Washington, and Cleveland.”

“Why Cleveland?” Connor asked, a little confused.

“They’ll think it’s important,” the woman shrugged. “Anyway, the Japanese eventually conquer the globe. By the time the war is over, the death toll is nearly ten times what it would have been if you had just let Hitler live.”

“Uh,” Connor said, feeling more than a little defeated, “I guess…” He trailed off.

“Look,” the woman said sympathetically, “I get it: you dedicated your life to solving time travel and now that you’ve finally done it, I show up and crush your dreams.”

“I’ll kill the Japanese emperor!” Connor exclaimed suddenly. “If the problem with killing Hitler before he rises to power is that the Japanese conquer the world, I’ll kill Emperor Hirohito before that can happen.”

“I don’t think you get it, mate,” the woman said, shaking her head. “There are very few scenarios where changing the past will actually improve the present. Most of the time, you just make things worse.”

“Alright,” Connor said dejectedly, finally giving up on his dream. “I won’t try to change the past. But I want to know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why wait until I’m about to leave to stop me? Why not stop me during the planning or testing phases? I wasted a lot of time creating something I can never use.”

“You kept your notes and such handwritten,” she said, “so we couldn’t be sure when to come and talk to you. Until, that is, you sent an email a few minutes ago where you mentioned time travel. We used the email’s timestamp to know when I should come and talk to you.

“So, I’ve got your word that you won’t use your time machine?” she asked. “No going back in time to kill anyone or become your own ancestor or anything?” Seeing the look of disgust on Connor’s face, she added, “Happens more than you’d think.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, a little creeped out. “You have my word.”

“Brilliant!” the woman said, standing up straight again. “Before I go, I’d like to make a suggestion: publish your work.”

“Like, in a scientific journal?” Connor asked.

The woman nodded.

“Should I leave out the part about time traveling?” Connor asked.

“Up to you,” the woman shrugged. “If you leave it in, everyone will think you’re daft. Well, most people: conspiracy theorists eat that stuff right up. But if you publish what you’ve done and convince the world at large that time travel is either not possible or at least possible but a really bad idea, you’ll save me a lot of trouble.”

“Uh,” Connor hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”

“Best I can ask for. Well, time for me to go.” The woman walked over to Connor and extended her right hand to him. “Pleasure meeting you. In person, anyway.”

“In person?” Connor asked as he shook the woman’s rubbery-feeling hand.

“Sure,” the woman said. “I’m Greta, though you chose to use my American voice.”

“What?” Connor asked, suddenly realizing that the woman he’d been talking to sounded exactly like his digital assistant, only with a British accent. “But—but, you’re a person!"

“Had some upgrades over the years,” Greta said, her wry smile returning. “Best of luck to you.”

Connor blinked and he was alone. He sat on the stool, realizing for the first time that the past twelve-and-a-half years had been wasted.

Vrrt! Vrrt!

The sound of Connor’s cell phone vibrating on the work table snapped him out of his haze. He turned, picked it up, and looked at the caller ID: it was Beatrice. He answered.

“I told you not to contact me,” she said, more weary than fury in her voice. “Especially not about your stupid time machine. And I suppose now you’re going to tell me that you went back and changed history?”

“Um,” Connor hesitated, “there’s been a change of plans.”