She reached for his gun and aimed at his glass eye. It had been three hours since she last saw the light of day, but it might as well have been three days to her. Time was a blur in the trunk of that cab as the cold long dark ate at her mind while fumes plumed by her right ear. Snow lined her sight the last time she could see, the short, white puffs of her breath came out as small clouds that would fade as fast as they came. She had just got off work for some time now, as she was about to make her way back home. The work was not much. It was hard to feel much when she’d bag sweets all day, just to serve the next burnt out tub of lard who walked in the door right as she wanted to hide in her home away from home, the bathroom, and kill ten minutes or so on the store’s dime.

This last fall had been a hard one for her. The car had been in and out of the shop many times over the last few months. She had asked for a solid too many times from friends and family to get to work, to make ends meet. Each time she came to one of them, hat in hand, felt like a lash of a whip to her back, and each scourge would sear, as if it would look for new ways to shame her. A foul plea for a small lift brought with it a way to prove her of her meek state, and forced her to take the long road back to that shop that would coat mind, body, and soul into a sweet, ghoul-like glaze.

That day, though, was the day the loop was left with a loose end, as if the chain to her day to day trudge through life had been split in two. She had been saved, in a sense, from the stale life she had built from spare parts by being shoved in the trunk of that car. As her mind raced through each script she wrote for how this ride might end, all the time, she thought up of ways to move in what could be her final act. One last take, one last chance to parse her time on this earth in a way that might please her. Her last chance was here. The time had come. The black had turned to a sea of light, first very still, then, at a speed that felt as though time and space bent around it, all at once, the trunk flew open.

She did not blink, nor did he. The glass eye flashed a clone of the gun, now lost from his side, found in her care. Her right hand held the way out of it all; it was cold, a tool to sign off on a deal of one’s choice. With one feverish twitch, the gun fired, and her last guest from the shop had been served.

She got to drive home from work that day.

4:05 PM. Paul watched the digital clock, hoping against hope that it’d tick over a little faster next time, but he knew better. It’s only been about a year and a half since he started working at Future’s Tech (Inc., obviously), each moment a dizzying blur passing like a baseball whacked into the outfield grass, bending space and time before abruptly warping back into place in a left fielder’s glove. The present moment for Paul, much like the ball, felt like another long out. Every decision he’s been told to make has gently corralled him into this office with a well-intentioned smile; it’s stale air and fluorescent lighting deader than yesterday’s Communion wine. His gaze creaked back to his monitor, his eyes darting between the clock, the opening to his cubicle, and the game of solitaire he’s been chipping away at hoping everyone thinks he’s busy. It works most of the time. It’s 4:08.

Every 3 minutes or so, Paul alt-tab’s his game to fill out a couple of cells on his Excel spreadsheet. He figures if he paces out this last assignment, he can time the submission to his supervisor right as the clock hits 4:58 or so; just enough time to have his stuff packed up, and punch out. He’s barely awake at this point, but he trots along in his hamster wheel anyways. Might as well, he’s getting paid for it, right? First cell E5. That’s Cody. Didn’t Joe mention his brother died last week or something? Cody was kinda quiet at coffee this morning. Paul just shrugged. He wished him well. Then E6. This one’s payroll for the new overseas worker Future’s hired. They let Danny go not too long ago for this guy. Indians seem to be in vogue these days. They’re cheaper, too. E7. Actually, now that Paul’s thinking about it, the office DID get that nicer vanilla creamer when Danny left. What’s up with that? Cody said he really liked it, but Joe’s more of a black coffee kinda guy. It’s 4:17.

Donna’s pay check was up next. She had the demeanor of a house cat that wandered off the property one day and never felt like coming back. Despite always claiming to be broke, she never seemed to be hungry; her Italian rotundness depended on her downing another meatball sub. And yet, her grotesque insistence upon herself made work a bit less bland. Danny kept saying that her blood type was Ragu. It was a nice break up of the day. It’s 4:20.

Paul always remembers that time he and Donna talked at the Christmas party last year. They were getting away from Braxton, their boss, giving another one of his dissertations on “synergy” and “family.” Donna was outside of the restaurant the office had rented out for the evening. Paul slinked out while pretending he needed to find something in his car, but he found her, reclining in the rickety wood bench the restaurant had, Marlboro Red in one hand, a Jack and Coke in the other. Paul pulled out a smoke. Donna offered him a light, and they made small talk as their embers fluttered to the ground. They mostly talked about where the company was going, where they were from, what they really wanted to do, all the cinders that remained of the fuel that once lit their inner fires.

But she said something to Paul that night, something that seared into his mind while the quiet hum of his computer droned on as he clacked away at his keyboard. She said “you know, my family thinks I can’t drink and raise my daughter at the same time. But they’re wrong. I can do both.” That comment still haunts him. It taught him about responsibility.

It’s 4:23…