David got to work late, frustrated that his alarm clock hadn’t gone off. He dropped his bag by his chair, hair still damp from a rushed shower.
He rubbed his temples, still haunted by the vivid flashes of fire and screams, and muttered, “Ever wake up from a dream so real, you can't shake it, even after you're awake?”
Debbie barely glanced at him, brushing off his odd greeting. “Forget dreams. Did ya hear what happened last night?”
His heart jumped. A cold sweat prickled the back of his neck. “Heard some rumors in the coffee shop, but nothing solid.”
She leaned against the cubicle wall, arms crossed tightly. “They lost more than half the crew.”
His knees gave out, and he dropped into his chair. “What? What happened?”
“They moved the layoffs up. Legal didn’t need as long as expected to push it through. You better check your calendar. Ben’s meeting with everyone today.”
David yanked out his laptop and scanned his inbox. “Eleven. Looks like Alice and Alex already went through. Do you know what happened to them?”
Debbie sighed. Her fingers drummed the side of her coffee cup. “I saw ’em both leave. Alice came back, but Alex didn’t. Kinda tells us all we need to know, huh?”
He stared blankly. “They let Wendy go?”
Her voice dropped. “Yeah. Fran, Arnie, Roberto, too.”
He blinked. “Wendy was the best analyst they had. Her record was spotless, and she excelled without breaking a sweat.”
Debbie nodded grimly. “I guess the economic collapse is biting deeper than we thought.”
David stood, laptop under his arm. His jaw clenched. Fourteen years, and now this—everything he built might disappear in a thirty-minute window. “When’s your meeting?”
“Just before yours.”
He exhaled sharply. “I don’t think I’ll be much good in the ones leading up to mine.”
Debbie tried to smile. “Don’t let it mess with ya. We’re solid, both of us. You been here fourteen years—I ain’t heard a bad word.”
The dream still clung to him, but this felt even more surreal.
The meetings passed in a blur. David caught himself rereading the same chart three times. Names and numbers floated by, none of them sticking. The leads were as rattled as everyone else—eyes glazed, voices brittle. Everyone had seen good people walk out. No one wanted to be next.
Three-quarters through the third meeting, Debbie tapped his shoulder.
“Alright. My number’s up. Wish me luck.”
David gave her a pat on the back and forced a smile. “You’ll do fine.”
She paused, then squeezed his shoulder. “Good luck to you too.”
She slipped out the back door of the conference room.
The silence that followed felt like a held breath.
David had time before his slot. He grabbed lunch and headed for the patio. The misters hissed, their sound sharp and serpentine. The air stayed hot, despite their efforts—oppressive, thick with the weight of unspoken dread.
He chose a table near the far wall and unwrapped his sandwich, but the food tasted like ash.
Across the courtyard, a familiar voice called out.
“David! What’s up?”
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He looked up to see George making his way over. David stood to greet him.
“Hey, George. Been a while.”
George sat across from him. “Yeah, too long. Usually can’t find a quiet corner out here, but now? It’s like a ghost town.”
David drummed his fingers. “Your team get hit?”
George’s face tightened. “Seven gone. Now we’ve got one tech running the main line and one covering the backup. There’s no way we keep uptime with that skeleton crew.”
David shook his head. “We lost about half the night crew. Can’t see how they plan to keep operations going.”
George leaned forward. “You know your fate yet?”
David checked his watch. Half an hour left. “I’m up in thirty.”
George exhaled, eyes flicking away. “Safe, for now. Doesn’t feel good, though. We lost people who carried whole teams. Some of the best techs I’ve worked with.”
David took a sip of his coffee. “I’m barely holding it together. No savings left after the divorce. If this job goes, so does my house. And my kid’s support? It’s all on me.”
George’s expression softened. “I hear you. I’ve got two teenagers and a mortgage. I was five minutes away from telling my wife we were screwed. I heard some of the managers cried while handing out folders. It’s that bad.”
David winced. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want their job. Handing out pink slips one minute, then waiting for your own turn.”
George smirked, trying to break the tension. “My wife already warned me—if I lose this job, I’m selling crystals at her cousin’s booth at the flea market.”
David managed a weak chuckle. “Might still be better than this.” The humor landed flat, more reflex than relief. He shifted in his seat, eyes drifting toward the courtyard’s far edge.
George chuckled. “You may be right there…”
David shook his hand. “Thanks, George. I hope I’m still here tomorrow.”
"Me too." He hesitated, then added, "I really do."
He stood. “I’d better call my wife.”
David stood and George clapped his shoulder. “She’s a mess—wants more than a text saying I made it.” David watched George pull out his phone as he crossed the courtyard.
He hoped that some of George's luck would fall his way.
David checked his watch. It was time.
At the top of the stairs, a conference room had easel paper taped across the windows. As David approached, the door opened.
Debbie stepped out, eyes rimmed with red.
“Hey…” His voice came out low. “Good news?”
She nodded, her voice catching. “Yeah… I made it. But Ben’s a wreck. I’ve never seen him like that.”
David gave a tight nod—anxiety rising in his chest. “Can’t blame him.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Hang in there, okay? Tomorrow we’ll be talking about this at the start of shift.”
Then she headed down the stairs. Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
David took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and knocked.
“Come in,” came the gravelly reply.
He stepped inside. The air was heavy—sweat, tears, and dread. A stack of gray envelopes sat on the table like a silent jury. A slumped tissue box rested nearby. The trash can behind Ben overflowed.
Ben stood, pale and spent. “David. How are you holding up?”
David shook his hand. “Been better. I know this isn’t easy on your end either.”
Ben looked away. He gestured to the seat and sat slowly. “It’s not. And you… you’re one of the harder ones.”
David’s heart skipped. He stared at the gray stack, hoping it meant anything but what he knew it did.
His stomach dropped. “So that’s it?”
Ben picked up an envelope from the top of the pile. David stared at it like it was a viper.
Ben pulled out a sheaf of papers. “These are your redeployment documents.” He glanced down at them in disgust. “If it were my call, I’d fight for you. But this came from higher up. To them, we’re data points.”
He flipped to the final page. “I’ll need your badge and a signature.”
David unhooked the badge from his belt. Fourteen years, reduced to one line on a spreadsheet. The overtime shifts. The systems he rebuilt. The family events he missed. None of it mattered. He handed over the badge and signed.
David gripped the pen so hard the clip broke off.
“So what happens now?”
Ben rubbed his face. “Two months’ severance. Access to the assistance center. They’ve helped some land on their feet.”
The words fell into static.
His voice was hoarse. “Why didn’t I make it?” The disfigured pen fell to the table.
Ben hesitated. “They flagged your technical experience as outdated.”
David blinked. “I’m a damn good tech. Everyone knows that. Just because I shifted to analysis doesn’t mean I lost it.”
Ben nodded. “You are. But the criteria only counted recent hands-on time. It was all black-and-white. No room for context.”
David slumped. “So doing a good job in a different role got me fired.”
Ben looked down. “You asked to retrain, but we didn’t have the bandwidth. Others came over first. It’s not fair—but I couldn’t change it.”
David’s voice dropped. “So because no one would train me, I get tossed?”
Ben sealed the paperwork. “I’m sorry, David. Truly. I hope the assistance center helps you find something better. You deserve it.”
David stood and took the envelope. “Thanks, Ben. For what it’s worth.”
David knew it really wasn't totally Ben's fault—but in a way it was. He could’ve tried harder. Fought for retraining. For time. For context.
He walked out. Down the stairs. Out the building. Into the sunlight.
The wind tugged at the envelope in his hand. His grip tightened instinctively, knuckles whitening, as if the paper might float away and take his last fourteen years with it.
Laid off.
What the hell do I do now? The house. My kid. Everything’s on the line.
Above, a raven wheeled through the clear blue desert sky, black wings slicing past the sun. Its shadow fell on him, but he didn’t look up.
Nearby, on a blooming paloverde branch, an owl watched him pass.
