Error Twenty-Four

Joel never felt so happy to fight traffic.

He had spent the last three days sick as a dog. He awoke today in perfect health and high spirits. He couldn’t wait to arrive at work. He actually missed his cubical on the fifth floor of Tucker and Schuster’s Pharmaceuticals.

He considered the speed-dating event he planned to attend that weekend. The last few years proved lonely. A Seattle woman might let you into her bed, but she probably wouldn’t let you into her life.

He started his minivan’s engine, when David’s wife, Martha, called. She hadn’t seen David since last Tuesday, the day Joel fell ill. David worked as an accountant on the seventh floor at Tucker and Schuster.

Joel assured Martha that David would turn up, but a heavy seed of worry churned his stomach. David never seemed the sort to pull a disappearing act.

Joel called work while he drove. He wanted to let his supervisor know that he planned to clock in today. He also wanted to ask about David.

The phone rang. And rang. No one answered. Odd. Tucker and Schuster employed an entire room of operators.

He pulled into his assigned parking space. Two odd occurrences demanded his attention as soon as he stepped from his vehicle.

First, bird droppings covered most of the other vehicles on the lot, as if the cars hadn’t budged in days.

Second, someone had spray-painted the windows black.

Actually, a third cause for concern existed. Someone had written across Tucker and Schuster’s eight-story headquarters, “Death to ALL who oppose the might of Demo” in blood.

Joel blinked several times. The blood couldn’t be real. His coworkers must’ve arranged some sort of joke.

Tucker and Schuster worked a tight ship, though. Pranks resulted in pink slips. Nowhere on Earth did anyone stack policies onto a higher podium.

Joel swiped his keycard and entered the building’s main lobby.

Most of the lights remained off. No one sat behind the receptionist’s desk.

Joel headed towards the elevators. Had a zombie apocalypse occurred? The rapture, perhaps? He always knew he would get Left Behind.

Ding. The nearest elevator opened. He entered. The doors slid shut. He swiped his ID card through the elevator’s slot, selected the fifth floor from the menu.

Access to every floor of the building required authorization—authorization confirmed or denied by each employee’s ID card. Joel’s card allowed him access only to the lower six floors.

He noticed something on the floor, knelt, and poked it with a finger, confirmed that he had discovered a human ear.

He straightened, alarmed. An accident must’ve happened.

Ding. The doors opened.

He walked from the elevator into the fifth floor’s maze of cubicles.

Only a few, scattered lights flickered. The seats and desks sat empty.

His right leg shot towards the ceiling. His heart jumped into his throat. He swung upside down. He had stepped into a snare made from an extension cable.

The payroll department screamed while they blasted forward from their hiding places amongst the shadows. They wore their usual suits and ties plus war paint. They wielded staplers, pencils, and sharpened rulers.

Joel swung, wide-eyed. He recognized Khalid from human resources. Khalid wielded a paper trimmer’s blade as a sword.

Khalid pointed his weapon at Joel. “Identify yourself.”

Joel presented his company ID.

Khalid knelt, read the card, and nodded towards one of the payroll people, who cut Joel free.

Khalid set Joel onto his feet, clapped his shoulders. “You are a follower of the Fax?”

Joel blinked. He blinked a lot, in fact. “I’m . . . confused, actually.”

Everyone stared at Joel, who waited to see if someone would offer him some clarification. No one did.

“You see,” Joel continued, “I’ve been sick at home for a few days, and it seems that, in my absence, someone sprayed-painted the building, removed an ear, and forgot to pay the electric bill.”

Everyone continued to stare at him.

“Perhaps,” Joel said, “one of you might fill me in on what’s happened.”

Khalid answered. “The fax machine spoke.”

Joel awaited further information. Further information did not follow.

“What did it say?” Joel asked, dumbfounded by the subject matter.

Beverly (a cheerful woman from payroll, who currently wore red lipstick in a raccoon’s mask) explained. “Demo sent His holy memorandum via the divine fax machine.”

“Oh.” Joel shifted from one foot to the other. “The holy memorandum, you say?”

Beverly nodded, as if she had drunk an entire quart of Red Bull. “Several times has Demo spoken to us via the fax machine, His holy commandments written in computer code. Here! See for yourself.” She thrust a sheet of paper at him.

Joel immediately knew which machine Beverly mentioned.

Someone had, over a month ago, jammed the demo button on the seventh-floor fax machine. Consequently, it frequently printed an unrequested demo sheet footnoted with an error message.

“Demo will not stop sending us His commandments until we satisfy them,” Beverly explained, with the sort of zealous expression reserved for those who spike the community Flavor Aid with cyanide.

“The fax machine’s broken,” Joel explained. “If you want it to discontinue spitting out demo sheets, you need to compare this error code with those listed in the machine’s manual.”

The payroll department straightened with an angry hiss.

“The accounting department—” Khalid said, as if his mouth filled with sour milk “—stole the holy manual. May Demo slay them all!” He turned his head, spit.

The payroll department followed suit.

“That’s disgusting!” Joel said.

“For days, now,” Khalid said, “we have warred with the accounting department. Much blood have we spilled.”

Joel frowned. “My friend, David, works in accounting.”

Khalid raised his paper trimmer, as if to strike Joel’s head from his shoulders. “You are friends with a vile nonbeliever?”

“Kill him!” someone said.

“Cut his throat,” another agreed.

Khalid nodded, pointed at Joel. “This nonbeliever must die—after we file the proper paperwork for his execution.”

*                      *                      *

Joel discovered himself, an hour later, chained to a chair in the break room.

Beverly popped into the room. “Hello, hello! How are you, this wonderful evening?”

Joel rattled his chains.

Beverly laughed. “I apologize for how long this whole cutting-your-throat-to-appease-the-Lord thing is taking. There’s just so much paperwork involved. I’ll need to file a DV-42, so I’ll need your PRF number.”

Joel bit his lip. “I don’t recall my PRF number.”

“It’s whichever number you use to send a memo to your department’s printer,” Beverly explained, while she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“I have my own printer at my desk,” Joel said. “I never used my PRF.”

Beverly froze in mid bounce. “Your own printer? From home? That’s against company policy. I could revoke your casual Friday privileges for that.”

“You’re about to offer my life to a piece of office equipment,” Joel reminded her, “and you’re wearing lipstick on your face.”

“Either way,” Beverly said, “I still need your PRF number.”

“And I still don’t know it.”

Beverly sighed. “I’ll have Peter assign you a new number. He’ll send you an email, which you’ll have to print, sign, and file.”

“You know,” said Joel, “I’m entitled to a thirty-minute lunch break.”

“True, but if I let you go, you might try to escape.”

“Company policy,” Joel reminded her.

She rubbed her chin. “I’ll drop you off at the top floor’s cafeteria. The elevator there won’t accept your ID card, and the stairwell’s guarded, lest the accountants launch an offensive from that direction.”

Joel nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

*                      *                      *

Joel stood within the top floor’s cafeteria.

He drifted towards a table loaded with clipboards. Nobody ever questioned a person with a clipboard.

A sheet of paper hung from the corkboard above the table. The sheet read: “Demo demands the blood of accountant babies. Also, Judy’s birthday is Friday. Cake in the break room!”

Joel headed towards the stairwell.

A man in a suit spotted him. “You’re headed towards an off-limit—”

“Clipboard.” Joel displayed the item.

“Oh,” said the stranger. “Carry on, then.”

Joel did.

He arrived at the stairwell door, guarded by two oversized women, each armed with a wooden table leg.

“Halt,” said one woman.

“Clipboard,” said Joel.

“That doesn’t cut it,” the other women said. “Father Khalid commanded us to guard this door. No one walks through it.”

“Then you violate the fire code,” Joel said.

The guards paused.

Joel continued. “If you do not allow access through this door, the fire marshal will have to close the building.”

The guards exchanged concerned glances. “Father Khalid commanded—”

“In that case,” Joel said, “you’ll both have to fill out form WW-56. You’ll find copies down that hall—” he pointed “—fifty-seventh door to your left.”

The guards straightened. “Who will guard this door in our absence?”

“I will.” Joel patted their shoulders. “Hurry, or you’ll miss Judy’s birthday.”

The guards agreed. “There’s going to be cake!” They ran off on their fool’s errand.

Joel waited for them to vanish from view. He opened the stairwell door—and set off an ear-splitting alarm.

The cafeteria filled with payroll people, each armed to the teeth with staplers and pencils.

Joel raced down the concrete steps. His attackers flew after him. Their war cries echoed.

He reached the seventh-floor landing just as its door swung open, and David (dressed in torn and bloodied rags) grabbed Joel’s arm, yanked him into the seventh floor, and locked the door behind them.

“David!” Joel said, while David half led, half dragged him down a hall.

David muttered something about a holy fax machine.

Joel planted his heels, ripped his arm free from the other man’s grasp. “Hold on. You’re involved in this nonsense?”

More accounts (their clothing torn and blood-soaked) surrounded them.

“It’s not nonsense,” David said. “Demo sent us His commandments via the holy fax machine, but He sent them addressed to our department.”

The other accountants nodded.

“Those heathens from the payroll department,” David continued, “have no right to keep Demo’s memorandum from us.”

Another accountant spoke. “We hid the fax’s manual inside the Forbidden Cave.”

Joel started to respond, couldn’t decide what to say, and simply sat on the floor. After a long breath, he said, “Go on.”

“Payroll wants to steal the manual before we can use it to translate Demo’s memorandum to humanity,” David explained.

The accountants broke into a heated debate over their best course of reaction.

Joel whistled, loud enough to silence everyone. “Where's the Forbidden Cave?”

David answered. “Second floor.”

The third floor served as the laboratory for Tucker and Schuster’s pharmacists. The second floor offered more cubicles.

“On whose side are the pharmacists?” Joel asked.

“The pharmacists follow a false path,” David said. “They believe that the fax machine was a wise piece of office machinery, but not Demo’s true prophet. I think they all became Christian Scientists or something.”

Another accountant spoke. “That’s why we killed most of 'em.” She lifted a decapitated, human head.

“Wow!” Joel jumped. “Look. I have Demo’s memorandum.” He removed from his pocket the sheet that Beverly gave him. “We can use the manual to finally translate it and end this lunacy.”

David’s mouth dropped. “You would dare enter the Minotaur’s dungeon?”

Joel stared at him. “Backpedal a bit, please. The Minotaur’s dungeon?”

“The pharmacists,” David said, “placed a Minotaur in the Forbidden Cave.”

Joel doubted he would discover anything remotely Minotaur-like on the second floor. “Let’s just get the damn manual.”

*                      *                      *

David led Joel onto the second floor. A labyrinth of cubicles awaited them.

David waved at the closest, cubicle wall. He whispered. “Only these ancient carvings can tell us how to avoid the Forbidden Cave’s many booby traps.”

“Those are Dilbert cartoons,” Joel said. “They’re joking about micromanagement.”

“Shhh!” David said, a finger across his lips. “You’ll alert the Minotaur.”

“There’s no Minotaur,” Joel said—before a Minotaur crashed through the cubicle beside him.

Metal and splinters cascaded, while the horrific beast stampeded after Joel, who fled across the maze.

The monster possessed a pair of curved horns and a bull’s head. The rest of it appeared a mountain of muscle. It carried a massive, metal club.

“Why?” Joel screamed. “Why is there a Minotaur on the second floor of this building?”

“The pharmacists,” David screamed back, “created a pill that turned Dan from customer services into a Minotaur.”

Joel dodged the Minotaur’s club, which cleaved through a cubicle wall and the desk behind it.

“And they turned Dan into a cow because . . . ?”

The monster swung its club again. Joel threw himself at the ground. The beast’s weapon swooshed over him.

“Because Demo’s memorandum told them to,” David explained. “Final paragraph: ‘Error twenty-four. Please contact customer support.’”

“And how,” Joel asked, while he rolled across the floor, “does that mean, ‘Turn Dan into a cow?’”

David shrugged. “Interpretation.”

Joel couldn’t dodge the monster’s strikes forever. Minotaur or not, Dan still served as a company man. What did all company men fear?

Joel waved his arms in alarm. “There’s a virus on the intranet! Someone opened a loaded email. The entire system crashed!”

Dan dropped his weapon and mooed as if his belly ached. He fell with an expression of dread, and rolled himself into the fetal position.

Joel cupped his hands around his mouth. “It’s okay,” he told David. “I defeated the Minotaur. We can now ensue with our preexisting nonsense.”

David appeared from the maze of cubicles. He tiptoed around the distraught monster and joined Joel, who approached a table, upon which the fax machine’s manual sat.

Joel removed from his pocket his copy of Demo’s memorandum. He unfolded the sheet of paper, and then flipped through the manual. “I’ll have ‘Error twenty-four’ decoded in just a—”

Bam. An entire wall crumbled. The debris settled, exposed the entire payroll department, in possession of a battering ram and armed to the teeth with office supplies.

Double Bam. Another wall crumbled to reveal the accounting department, armed to the teeth and in possession of an even larger battering ram.

“We have doors, people!” Joel said.

Payroll and accounting clashed. Paper trimmers swung. Throats split. Blood gushed. Pencils stabbed. Eyes popped and squirted warm eye-goo. A bald man took a stapler to the forehead. Someone threw a Troll doll.

Joel found the right page within the manual. He cleared his throat for attention.

Both armies froze.

“Here,” said Joel, “is what ‘Error twenty-four’ means:

“‘Food grows from the ground. The human body serves as an endless source of amusement. Humans possess the creativity, drive, and imagination that allow them to accomplish anything.

“‘Humanity has learned to live separated from all but the most extreme, unwanted elements. They have learned to make love without accidental pregnancy. They have, so long as they stay out of the water, escaped the food chain.

“‘Given these accomplishments, everyone can live a safe, healthy, love-filled life, provided, of course, that its members don’t act like a bunch of dicks.’”

Everyone digested these words from their god, Demo.

Blood dripped from their hands and makeshift weapons.

“What about gay people?” Khalid asked.

Joel squinted. “Pardon?”

“Gay people,” Khalid said. “Are they allowed to live outside the food chain?”

“I don’t see why not,” Joel said. “The memo didn’t include—”

“What about birth control?” David asked.

“I believe that was mentioned,” Joel said.

“What about abortion?” another person asked.

“What about prayer in schools?” asked another.

“Fuck it,” said David. “Let’s be dicks.”

With renewed war cries, both armies returned to slaughtering each other.

Blood splashed across the floor.

Joel’s cell phone rang. He answered.

“Joel?” his caller, Martha, asked.

Joel sat at the edge of a table. “I found David.”

David, at that moment, broke another man’s neck, right before a woman jumped onto his back and repeatedly bashed him over the head with a Chia Pet.

“Is he all right?” Martha asked
“He’s fine,” Joel said, while he listened to Dan moo in misery. “He’s just a being human.”

Dating Advice from Ass-Master Steve

You want to learn how to be a pussy-whisperer like me? You came to the right place, yo. I’ll teach you the basics. Before long, you be all mad-deep in women.

I know what I’m talking about. I can name, like, millions of chicks I’ve slept with, but they’re all from Canada, so you wouldn’t know any of ’em.

Step One: Yell at random women on the sidewalk.

Sounds crazy, right? But check this out: ninety-nine-point-two percent of all successful marriages originate with this step. That’s just math, bro.

So you’re driving along, listening to your Limp Bizkit, and you see some fly-ass honey standing on the sidewalk. You creep up, roll down your window, and yell, “Hey, girl!”

Chicks love this shit.

Step Two: Be judgmental.

Nothing turns a woman on more than feeling judged by someone who doesn’t know shit about her.

If she works fulltime, make her feel guilty for not being at home with her kids.

If she does spend time with her kids, make her feel guilty for being more of a homemaker and less of a modern, independent, career-minded woman.

If she doesn’t have kids, remind her that her eggs are all shriveling up inside her, and that she’s not doing her job to make babies and stuff.

If she puts out, call her a slut.

If she withholds, call her a tease.

If she pretends to enjoy sports, video games, or comics, quiz her with mass suspicion. Let her know that you aren’t fooled for a second. You know damn well she’s pretending to like that stuff because she wants to impress you.

Chicks don’t enjoy nothing that don’t have shit to do with potholders.

Step Three: Be Sensitive.

Bitches love a sensitive motherfucker. Whenever you’re with a target, act like a whiny pussy. Weep a lot and put yourself down.

Here’s some more math for you, bro: Pity equals attraction.

Step Four: Be self-centered.

Nothing makes a chick hotter than a guy who won’t shut up about himself.

For whatever reason, chicks feel a need to try to slide in a comment or two about themselves, or they ask questions that sound like you ought to return them. Don’t fall for that shit, dawg. Never let a girl get a word in edgewise.

This lets her know that you have no interest in her as a person, and that you only want to hit it. Always a good idea to get that information across.

What do you talk about? Ex-girlfriends are perfect! Tell her all about those asses you’ve tapped and how badly the relationships ended. Sound bitter.

Step Five: Be arrogant.

This goes hand-in-hand with never shutting up about how awesome you are.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But Ass-master Steve, you just said back at Step Three that I ought to put myself down and mope a lot.”

Yeah, bro. Definitely. But you have to spin it around constantly and talk a lot of shit about how awesome you are.

The goal is to sound like a worthless person who’s trying to compensate by acting like a know-it-all asshole.

This can prove tricky. The last thing you want a honey to think is that you have enough well-deserved self-confidences that you can play it cool and not give a shit what anyone else thinks about you. No chick would ever find that appealing.

Step Six: Corner her.

Whenever a honey wanders into the corner of a room, block her way back out of it. Wave your arms around if necessary.

DO NOT let her get past you. This is NOT the time for respect toward personal boundaries.

The more frustrated she becomes with you, the more likely you’re going to hit it.

The First Date:

The enemies of home plate are safety and security. Make sure your target feels neither. Chicks dig a guy they can’t trust. If she tells you something private, tweet that shit to the world.

For your first date, take her to a dangerous neighborhood and abandon her. Just walk out of whichever building the two of you are in, get in your car, and drive away without saying a word.

The First Kiss:

Always ask permission to kiss her. Say it in a whiny voice, like you expect her to say “No.” Take waaaaay to long to psych yourself up for it.

If possible, crack your forehead against hers when you finally go in.

It helps to have a lot of chewing gum in your mouth. Chewing tobacco works even better.

In Bed:

The game of sex is won by getting as much pleasure for yourself as possible. Don’t waste time trying to figure out what she likes. This would require you to pay attention to how she responds to different activities.

Just do whatever the hell you want and yell the wrong name when you cum.

After Sex:

Get the hell out of there, yo. Chicks hate cuddling almost as much as they hate pillow talk. Just scramble for the door.

Do NOT call the bitch the next day. Ignore her until she’s texted you half a dozen times. And make damn sure you tell everyone on Facebook how freaky she was between the sheets. Those rumors won’t start themselves.

On your way out of her apartment, leave something behind by “accident.” This way, you’ll have an excuse to return and try to hit it again without her thinking you came back because you wanted to spend time with her.

In Conclusion:

Follow these simple steps, and you can be like me, Ass-Master Steve, who has, like, a million girlfriends . . . in Canada.

Four Ethans

Ethan Worth carries his TV dinner to the walnut coffee table in the living room. The eighteen-year-old watches the television screen, across which a motivational speaker speaks to the audience seated around him.

“Everyone chooses his or her own path,” says the motivational speaker. “The trick? You must—” (Ethan whispers along)  “—believe in the destiny you choose.”

Ethan sits, after dinner, at the cluttered desk in his bedroom. He adds his high school diploma to his scrapbook. Trophies crown every surface around him. Blue ribbons smother corkboards. Plaques hang from walls.

(forward)

The next morning, Ethan seats himself upon a chair fastened to the naked, cement floor, inside the visitor’s center of a women’s prison.

A TV, protected by a metal cage, hangs from a brick wall. Ethan sets his scrapbook upon the cold table in front of him.

A guard leads Faith to the table. She sits, her eyes glued to the TV.

Ethan swallows. “Hi, Mom.”

“You bring me my cigarettes?” Her eyes don’t drift from the TV.

He removes a soft pack from his pocket, hands it to her. “I have something for you.” He gestures towards the scrapbook.

She stares at the TV.

Ethan clears his throat. “Have you heard from Dad?”

She finally looks at him. “You live with him. You ever see him?” Her attention returns to the TV. “Unless you’re money, he doesn’t know you exist.”

Ethan tries to grin. “I guess I’ll have to get my face on a dollar bill, then.”

(forward)

Ethan and his girlfriend, Hope, spend the evening on a stroll across a carnival. They pass a table at which an old woman concentrates upon her crystal ball.

“Care to hear your destiny?” the old woman asks Ethan.

“No thanks,” Ethan says. “I’ve already picked one.”

Hope offers him a playful elbow. “What’s your future?”

“Greatness is my destination.”

Hope sighs. “Once you reach it, you’ll wish you had slowed down, enjoyed your journey.”

Ethan buys her a snow cone. They sit at a picnic table.

“Have you decided?” she asks between bites. “Will you join the Army? Or will you play football for the Miami Hurricanes while attending law school?”

“I’m determined to enter politics,” Ethan says. “People vote for lawyers and soldiers. Either path will take me there.”

Hope rolls her eyes. “Since it doesn’t matter . . . ” She displays a quarter. “Heads, army. Tails, you play football for the Hurricanes.”

The time is 4:30 pm. The coin is airborne. Sunlight glistens off its metal. Ethan tries to catch it. He misses. It lands.

“Tails,” Hope whispers. “Guess you better pack.”

(forward)

Ethan attends law school in Miami for the next few months. He plays football. He excels not only at law, but also at science. He studies theories such as the Multiverse.

He learns that Einstein considered time an illusion.

(forward)

Ethan trips, one sunny afternoon in autumn, across the football field during practice. He tears a muscle in his leg. The doctor says he’ll recover after a few months in a cast.

Hope leaves NYU, jumps a plane to Miami. She cares for Ethan, helps him recover. He eventually returns to the football field. Hope remains in Florida, watch Ethan graduate law school.

(forward)

The time is again 4:30 pm. Ethan and Hope sit in a diner. Ethan tells Hope that the Seattle Seahawks offered him a position.

Hope asks Ethan to return to NYU with her, instead.

Ethan sits, stunned that she would suggest that he turn down a chance at professional football.

(rewind)

The time is 4:30 pm. The coin is airborne. This time, Ethan catches it.

He leans across the picnic table centered in the carnival. “I don’t need a quarter to tell me what to do,” he tells Hope. “To hell with law school. I’m joining the Army.”

A few months later, Ethan graduates both basic training and AIT.

Ethan, throughout his military career, thinks only of how he shall ascend the next rung in the promotional ladder. He realizes too late that his self-centeredness alienated him from his fellow soldiers.

Major Huffman arrives in Ethan’s barracks during the last week of Ethan’s contract. Huffman announces his assembly of military unit sworn to shut down a domestic terrorist group called Black Curtain.

Black Curtain targets “unimportant,” American buildings. Bookstores. Dentist offices. Daycares. They want Americans to feel threatened everywhere.

The clock displays 4:30 pm. Ethan must either join Huffman’s team . . . or complete his contract and start his political career.

(rewind)

4:30 pm. Ethan and Hope sit in a diner. The Seattle Seahawks have offered him a position. Hope wants Ethan to return with her to New York.

Ethan cannot pass up an opportunity to play for a professional team, and he abandons her.

He plays for the Seahawks. He plays well. Children plead for Ethan’s action figure. Collectors seek his rookie card.

Ethan feels loved. He talks big and boastful, and the public embraces him all the more for it.

One day before the start of a game, he lines up beside his teammates, who hold their helmets against their hearts, a demonstration of mourning for those killed by the terrorist group, Black Curtain, in New York.

Ethan worries that the terrorist attack harmed Hope. Distracted, he drops the ball that would’ve carried his team to the Super Bowl. The world of sports turns on him.

Ethan learns that Hope remains alive and well in New York. She works as a veterinarian. She always held a soft spot for injured animals.

The next football season arrives. Ethan publically swears to redeem himself for last year’s fumble. He doesn’t.

His coach benches him after twenty consecutive fumbles. He cannot show his face in public.

He calls Hope one lonely night, begs her to meet him. She agrees, because she always held a soft spot for injured animals.

They agree to meet at her favorite Chinese restaurant in New York.

(rewind)

4:30 pm. Staff Sergeant Ethan Worth joins Huffman’s antiterrorist team.

Ethan volunteers for every assignment. His superiors praise his proactivity. Their praises feel warm. He swears to stop Black Curtain, who recently attacked New York.

He sleeps often with Sergeant Hatchet, another member of Huffman’s team. She kisses him, as if she tries to siphon time from his lips. She turns her back to him whenever he claims to love her, as if angry with herself.

The night before Ethan ships out to spend several months on a training exercise, he dismounts Hatchet. He says with a sheepish smile,  “I owe you an orgasm.”

She kisses his nose. “You owe me seven, but who’s counting?”

Ethan discusses their possible future together, and she grows angry. She breaks down and screams. “I won’t be here when you return.”

Cancer. The sort one doesn’t bother to fight.

She swears that she never expected him to fall in love with her. She just couldn't spend end her life in an empty bed.

"I’m Schrodinger’s cat," she says, after a silence. "Alive and dead."

Alive. Dead. It only depends on whether or not anyone pays attention.

True to her word, Hatchet does not await Ethan when he returns from his training.

Ethan works relentlessly to discover Black Curtain’s next target: a Chinese restaurant in New York. But which one? The terrorists will escape if Huffman's team vacates every Chinese restaurant in New York.

If Ethan wishes to capture Black Curtain, he must catch them by surprise. The restaurants must remain open.

Ethan grabs the first flight to New York.

(rewind)

4:30 pm. Staff Sergeant Ethan Worth does not accept Huffman’s offer to join his antiterrorist unit. Ethan starts his political career, instead.

He earns a place for himself in Washington, calls attention to his military service, speaks often about the importance of improving the military’s strength. He swears that any sign of weakness will embolden America’s enemies.

By luck, Black Curtain attacks New York.

Support for Senator Worth skyrockets. He makes influential friends. He collects power. People respect his power.

He becomes a key opponent to the proposed, single-payer, national health care program.

He runs into Hope, one evening, in New York. He meets her husband and their infant . . . in a Chinese restaurant.

(rewind)

4:30 pm. Ethan and Hope sit in a diner in Miami. The Seattle Seahawks have offered him a position. Hope wants Ethan to return with her to New York.

He agrees.

He passes the New York State bar exam. Many of Ethan’s coworkers consider him lazy, because he prioritizes Hope over his career.

He and Hope marry in June. She conceives a child in November.

He never suspected such happiness could exist.

He drops her off, one December morning, at her doctor’s office. While he searches for a parking space, the doctor’s office explodes.

Black Curtain planted a bomb inside the building.

Hope loses her baby in the blast. She does not lose her life. Not quite.

Time passes. She does not regain consciousness. Medical bills pile.

February. He sits at her bedside, rotates her joints, cuts her hair, ignores his mounting debts.

March. Hope awakes, but her memories seem fractured. She cannot walk. Twice, Ethan explains to her that their baby died.

Nevertheless, he feels relieved to have her awake and mostly aware.

He takes her to her favorite Chinese restaurant to celebrate her return.

(pause)

Staff Sergeant Ethan Worth, dressed in civilian clothes, storms the men’s room inside a Chinese restaurant. He searches the stalls, finds the bomb he cannot hope to deactivate in the next thirty seconds.

Its timer continues to tick.

No choice but to evacuate.

He races outside the bathroom, yells for the diners’ attention.

His eyes lock with Hope’s. She sits at a table with another man. An infant sits upon her lap.

(pause)

Ethan the Football Player shakes hands with Hope’s husband. The three of them seat themselves within the restaurant.

(pause)

Ethan the Politician accepts the seat that Hope offers him. She introduces her husband to him.

                                                                            (pause)

Ethan the Lawyer leans across the table and takes his wife’s hands. He squeezes them. Hope smiles her broken smile.

To her, he realizes, the explosion at the doctor’s office just happened.

                                                                            (play)

The bomb in the bathroom ticks off its final few seconds, and all four of Ethan’s journeys end.

The time is 4:30 pm.

The coin remains airborne.