Thierry's face was pale and bloodless, composed of levels of gray, eyes more steel than blue. He opened his mouth to say something when his head morphed into a woman's, with the same dark hair, but longer, and with the same steely eyes. Theresa.

Then the face changed back again, and forth, and back.

Trapped and helpless under the siblings' bland stares, I lashed out against them, intent to slash their uncaring faces, to see red blood on gray skin.

Pain struck my hand, and I opened my eyes to the murky morning light of my bedroom.

A dream.

And I had smashed my hand against the wall beside my bed.

Rubbing my hurting fingers, I read the alarm clock. 6:15. A quarter past six—my usual time to get up.

But today, I could just stay in bed—no one would care.

Don't get up until noon. My mother loved that. More often than not, she spent whole mornings in her bedroom, drowsing, eating, and watching TV.

But I wasn't her. I would never be her.

I got up and prepared breakfast—muesli and yogurt. Eating, I kept checking the clock on the wall, like every morning, yet now the progress of its hands lacked meaning. I didn't have to catch a bus.

Later, I paced the two rooms of my apartment—the living room with its kitchen and the small bedroom, folding up laundry in one of them and stowing it away in the other. When that was done, I settled on my sofa, and I brought up the newspaper on my laptop.

The news on the screen vied for my attention. Another government scandal involving a government official and a pretty, young party member. The national debt was higher than ever, closing in on 20 trillion dollars. A deaf black man had been shot by the police because he wouldn't listen. A blond actress was thrilled to be expecting her first child.

Nothing of this had the power to keep my mind from the job I had lost.

The forecast predicted clouds and rainy spells in the afternoon. I'd get wet on my way to the job center.

The joke of the day: 70% of our planet is covered by water. The rest is covered by idiots. I was one of them.

The riddle of the day: What kind of room has no windows and no doors but might make you hallucinate? My bedroom if I kicked down the door, smashed the windows, and took a nap to dream of slashing the Thornes' faces.

I huffed. I should be in TCorp's pool now, swimming. Then I should go to the office. I had no business sitting on this sofa at 8 a.m. reading stupid jokes and unanswerable riddles.

But then, I had no business at all. I was out of work. Useless.

I decided to go jogging.

~~~

The beachside was almost deserted at this time of the day, the only other people joggers, like me. Were they all unemployed?

Unemployed. What a word. It reeked of poverty, ruin, and uselessness. It reminded me of home, of my mom.

At least, I wouldn't run into her. She liked the beach, but it was too early for her to be up and out.

A cool breeze came in from the sea, making me run faster. My feet hit the wooden boards of the beach walk, drumming a regular beat. The restaurants, bars, and food stalls I passed were closed, shuttered up. They wouldn't open until noon.

Had the Thorne siblings tricked me? Set up a trap for me? Was amateurish Theresa nothing but an agent to make me spill company secrets?

Was Thomas Thorne involved, too? No, the father was the only one of them who seemed genuine, trustworthy.

I could find him and tell him what had happened.

And then what? Would he discredit his offspring by restituting me, by picking my sad remains up from the ground? And if he did, how long would that last? How long would I last? What would happen when he retired and Thierry became TCorp's CEO?

I could sue them, use the American response to anything fate threw at you. I couldn't afford a lawyer, but I might find one working for a contingency fee. One of the greedy folks, waving the banner of justice yet, in truth, just lusting for the money they'd extort from TCorp or the Thornes.

But what would happen if I did that? I'd need proof. I'd need witnesses, such as Sandra and Camille—I'd pull them into this mess. And I'd have to face Thierry and Theresa, both of whom I never wanted to see again.

Unless I could bring them down for good. Bring my revenge to whoever was the one behind this.

I ran faster. Running away was good, getting as much distance between myself and the Thornes as possible.

Reaching the end of the beach walk, I turned around, now facing the city center. One of the buildings was TCorp. Not wanting to see it, I set my eyes on the boards of the walk.

When I reached the cluster of food stalls and restaurants again, I took a break and looked out at the waves, panting. The water was a desultory gray, under a morose, clouded sky.

I stood beside a fast-food shop. 'Royal Sandwiches' said a large sign over its closed counter. The two words sat under a weathered, wooden crown and were underlined by an overlong, painted baguette stuffed with green lettuce, yellow cheese, and some yukky, brown stuff.

A note was pinned to the building's wall. 'Wanted: Sandwich King'

I needed a job. Maybe I could be a Sandwich King. The title had a ring to it. It would help me look eye-to-eye with the Thornes.

I'm royalty, and you're nothing but new money.

But Sandwich King was probably a glorified title for an unskilled, underpaid bottom dweller cutting sandwiches.

I resumed my running.

~~~

The lady conducting the interview at the job center gave me a stern look through black-rimmed spectacles that made her eyes small, turning them into two pinpricks of disapproval. Her flaxen hair was pulled back into a tight, old-woman's bun—she'd be younger without it.

She held my termination letter in her hands.

"You've worked as an accountant, but you don't hold the degree." Her words sounded like an accusation.

I nodded, guilty, an impostor caught in the act.

"Your termination letter doesn't mention the skills you have. Did you get anything else, such as a reference?"

"No."

"What was the reason for the termination?"

Here it came—the question I had dreaded.

"They... they say I've passed confidential company information to an outsider."

Her eyes widened. "Did you?"

"Yes."

The room felt hot.

She squinted tiny eyes at me. "Did they threaten you with legal action?"

"Er... no." I hadn't considered this. They probably could. But in that case, I would strike back, telling the court everything I had seen in the accounts. The Thorne siblings wouldn't like that.

"You're lucky, then." She huffed. "But finding a job with the salary you had may be a major challenge. What about finishing school and getting a degree?"

"That would take two years, at least." I had considered the possibility before coming here and done the numbers. "I don't have the money to do that. I first need a job."

"Okay." She glanced at her wristwatch. "So here's what we'll do. Go for one of the untrained office jobs..." She made some entries in a form she had before her and handed it to me. "Give this to one of our people at counters 1 through 8 in the main hall. In return, you'll get a list of the jobs we have registered at this time. If you're successful and find something, let us know. If not, apply back to counters 1 through 8 next week for a new list and for the insurance formalities. If you haven't found anything within a month, we'll talk again. Good luck."

I was dismissed.

She gave a small sigh as she reached for the next file on her stack.

I said my goodbyes and went to the main hall. The queues at counters were long—sad, giant snakes composed of people wasting time while dreaming to get one of those untrained jobs. I joined them, fitting in with perfection.

It was four p.m.The counters closed at five. With some luck, I'd get the promised list before that. If not, tomorrow would be another day. The one thing I had in abundance was time.

I joined the end of one of the waiting reptiles.

My phone dinged. I dug it from my purse and checked out its screen. A message from Sandra, asking how I was.

How was I? Good question. Definitely not in the mood to text with her. I first wanted to find my feet again.

I put my phone back.

And tonight?

Spend the evening in front of my TV?

I could call some friends I usually met on weekends. It would be good to talk, to laugh, and to be normal. But they fancied expensive restaurants, not a place for the untrained and unemployed. And they'd want to know why I sought distraction on a weekday.

I'd have to tell them that I was out of work. Out of prospects. Out of a future.

I opted for the TV instead.