4pm

I sat there for a while and just stared at the email.

I'd been here how long? Good pay, lunch breaks on the front steps, interns coming and going. The one staying, thriving, bounding over me, my boss now, and his signature there under the rote "With regards," and just floating above the "Manager, Event Horizon Division."

I was in the 8-hour per pay period PTO bracket. I got all ten federal holidays. A Christmas bonus last year. I had a parking pass.

Had. Simmons would have it by this time tomorrow, a vapid smile on his face, that sheen of cold sweat on his forehead I'd gotten so used to.

The clock on the wall ticked, its hands crawling slowly toward the inevitable, and I glanced down at the draft I'd started, unable to hit send and let it go into the company cloud. I'd seen the emails before, but I'd never really slowed down enough to read them, to soak up the words, the thoughts, the memories that went with them. The faces -- I barely even remembered them, head down as it always was. Focused on the next task, the tick of the next check box on the way to my next paycheck. The occasional glance into my cubicle by someone I could have called a friend in any other circumstance -- anywhere but here.

Because the truth was I didn't want to know — their last names, the names of their children, what kind of car they drove or what sort of sandwich they packed in the morning or how they liked their coffee. It always struck me as odd that they gathered around the bubbler and joked about sports and raved about the traffic and squandered their time with non-company nonsense.

I swallowed, lifted my arms from my side, feeling the dampness in my pits, thankful that I'd worn a white t-shirt under my dress shirt. It's not like I didn't know this was coming, that this would happen today, that the email itself wouldn't materialize on my desk precisely at noon and I would have a few remaining hours to sort out my desk and write my own missive. I'd known for days now, years even, that it was coming, that despite my best efforts, the contract had been signed, and the maximum hours reached, and my time had come. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I'd agreed to this, and I'd dedicated my time here to this moment, as frustrating and cold and terrifying as it was.

For the first time, Gary had walked by and not looked in. Max hadn't tried to meet my eyes. Bob hadn't attempted to engage me in conversation. Always rejected before — I'd never let them in for a moment. Not a look up to met Gary's smile. Not a glance at Max beyond the worn tan leather of his shoes. Not even a grunt in reply to Bob. Not once. And now, they didn't try. They'd gotten the email, too. They knew, and they kept their distance.

They knew their emails would come one day.

I clicked over to payroll, read through the last few documents in the few remaining minutes I had left. I signed them all — initials where indicated, a digital signature on three pages. Then 'submit' and the deed was done. The last page was the Survivor Benefit, which I lingered over longer than I should have, wiping my eyes with the sky blue diamond tie I'd bought after Christmas and saved for this occasion.

Three. Two. One. The second hand tagged the twelve. Four o'clock on the dot, and I hit send, stood, closed my laptop and walked out of my cubicle. Left, then a right towards the red door, and not a single noise in the whole room behind me. Just the soft footfall of my steps on the cream carpet. I wasn't even sure if I was breathing. My fingers trembled when I reached for the knob, and I heard a sharp intake of breath when I touched it. Was it mine?

The door was so red, I was sure the knob would scald my hand. But the metal was cool, and the door swung effortlessly open and into a swirling darkness crowded with men in white hazmat suits that covered them from head to foot. I walked right past them toward my destination, ignoring their notes, their clipboards, the gadgets they attended. "Biometrics, check." "Paperwork, check." "Bathroom key, check." "Time dilation, check." "Radiosynchronicity, check." "Entropy filter, check." "Connection, check." I barely registered the words, the nothing in front of me consuming my attention.

It was two minutes past four, Eastern Standard Time, on 25 June, precisely ten years after I'd joined the company and the program and signed the papers that I stepped through the portal.