Work has become a 24/7 affair. Once they discovered that I do not sleep, they found all sorts of creative ways to keep me there around the clock. They moved me back to my old space but gave me free reign over four times as much floor space. A gigantic desk with several computers; it was like a DJ booth but for work. I swing around and around, always facing one and always knowing exactly where to jump in to the particular peculiar task at hand. The definitely don’t want me leaving but at the same time, they’re treating my like some kind of pariah. People come in each morning and shudder to see me upon their arrival. As if they were saying, “Oh, that guy…” It’s like they wonder what I do when they’re not there. Am I still with my wife? (They ask.) “Do they … you know … here?” And they don’t like me touching their stuff, either.
But I need to get out. I have a secret. The world is ending, I just know it. It’s ending and I need to get out. There’s a trick to survival. There must be. Someone must know. My dad doesn’t sound worried. I project myself mentally (never physically leaving the building) down to the riverfront. There is a carnival atmosphere down there. Everyone else knows the world is ending, too. But no one cares. It’s one big party. A festival. I try to sneak through but it’s like I’m more visible now than I’ve ever been. Everyone wants to stop me, block me, talk to me? I can’t get to the bridge.