A death march would be an easier endeavor, because at least in that case there’s the immutable possibility of a guillotine to be prepped and ready for him at the end. Even the prospect of a blunt blade hacking away at the back of his neck like a butterknife to a carrot sounds more pleasant than whatever fucking nightmare is on the other side of that door. A nightmare draped in beiges and browns worthy of the DMV—or worse—his late grandmother’s kitchen. He can taste the jellied Spam at the back of his throat.

Jellied Spam. Yeah. If this place had a taste, that would be it. Jellied Spam with a side of tuna salad.

The door at the end of the narrow hallway swings open, and a man holding a manila folder says his name without looking his way.

He quickens his step not because he wants to, but because the man has already moved away and the door is drifting closed. He's had professors lock him out of classrooms as his hand reached to grab the handle a second too late, and while this isn’t campus, and the man inside that room isn’t a professor, some anxieties are hard to kick.

He wedges his foot in the door just in time and heaves a sigh of relief.

The place smells of dust and neglected filing supplies, like the KODAK counter at Kmart. Only, instead of a middle-aged lady whose bob is perma-stuck in ’82, he's met with a middle-aged man who—quite frankly—also looks to be stuck handing out bowling shoes in 1982.

The cheap, lasered name plate on the desk reads Steve Raglan: Career Counselor, and he has to agree with it. The man looks like a Steve, and he looks like a counselor. Mid to late forties at the youngest, mid-fifties at the oldest. He knows at least three other computer science majors that would saddle up to him at the most minute opportunity, but that’s to be expected. Any fag not smart enough to get into Harvard or Berkley always gravitates towards the old and nerdy types to the point that it’s a whole stereotype.

He has no idea why but figures it’s to do with the fact that there’s nothing better to do in Minnesota.

He could have gotten into Berkeley. Hell, he could have gotten into MIT. But he didn’t, and now here he is.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Ricky,” Raglan says, licking his thumb to better turn the page in the file. “Undergrad at MSU, full ride, graduated Cum Laude. Yet you can’t keep a job. Wanna tell me why that is?”

“No,” he says.

Raglan raises his eyebrows, silvery eyes still on the page in front of him. “You lived with an aunt for the better part of your life, and you…listed her end-of-life care on your resume.” His face is a mask of detached professionalism, but there’s a hint of amusement in the way the word resume lilts on his tongue. “Have you any medical background?”

“What’s on the file is what you get, man.”

“Hm.” Raglan spends more time going through the file before closing it and setting it down on the desk. He leans back in his chair, and Ricky stares at the way his sleeves are rolled up to his elbow. “Just trying to get a read here. You look like a smart young man, on paper.”

“And in person?” he prompts, considering he dressed in his best for this meeting. It’s not his fault his best is a pair of old slacks and a Def Leppard t-shirt he thrifted three towns over. He even combed his hair. “Look, Mr. Raglan, I just need a job. Anything will do.”

“Anything will do…” Raglan squints at him through those dumb glasses. Sound comes in from the other side of the door, indistinct voices reminding Ricky that there’s a world beyond this hellish room. “Expelled on drug charges, petty theft, doesn’t do well with authority… I gotta be honest with you, your options? They look rather slim. Have you considered Radio Shack?” Ricky laughs. “Not enough of a challenge for you, is it?”

Feeling a headache coming on, Ricky rubs at his eyes. “You married, Mr. Raglan?”

The question makes him pause. “Divorced.”

He can smell the lie like a starved bloodhound.

“This office looks well-used, but it lacks the touches a man like you would otherwise have. No picture frames, no hint of a wife or kids. You look like a real respectable man, Mr. Raglan, but I can tell you hate this job just as much as I hate the idea of making a living working at Radio Shack. They don’t even carry Fujitsu S3 GPUs anymore.”

The voices outside grow louder then dim away, making the office eerily silent as they sit across from each other at a stalemate. Raglan considers Ricky in a way he can’t pinpoint, similar to the way therapists used to poke at his brain during his late teens. The guy’s delivering on hard eye contact though, and Ricky refuses to back down.

It's when Raglan leans forward to rest his elbows on the desk, chin on clasped hands like a scientist amused by something a bug has said, that Ricky averts his eyes. He wants to comment on it, but words whither at the back of his throat.

That gesture. It makes him look familiar.

The way his mouth tilts only slightly, the ghost of a comforting smile on his lips plucks a string in the more remote recesses of Ricky's mind. Was he a counselor on campus, too? He's sure he would’ve remembered meeting with him. Oh God. He hasn't slept with him in an alcohol-induced haze, has he? It’s plausible. He is, technically, a (former) computer science major living in Minnesota even if his school kicked him out and—

“Mr. Kronbach, I asked if you would like some coffee.”

Did he? Fuck.

It’d be fucked up, right? Unethical? If he knew who he was and was still playing counselor? Some sort of power imbalance to give HR a field day?

“No, thanks.” There’s no way to tell if looking at Raglan for an extended period of time makes him more familiar, or if some other part of Ricky is being rankled by a different kind of interest. He wears a no-nonsense type of air that infuses itself with a hint of arrogance. The way he lifts his chin is almost a challenge and—Jesus H. Christ, dude. “I’m good.”

“Water, then. You’re looking a bit pale.”

“You know what? If we’re done here, I’m gonna go ahead and go.”

Raglan doesn’t hesitate, nodding his head as he pushes away from his desk and stands. Ricky remains frozen in his chair, staggered by his height and the whiplash of his crotch being in clear sight. Which, perfectly normal. He had shared a dorm with three other guys and exposed packages were his daily bread, but he had standards.

Sometimes.

But he has no interest in men who look like they think playing Dungeons & Dragons is Devil worship, even if they look the type that should be executing the role of dungeon master for their accountant friends.

“Can I tempt you with a night security position?” Raglan asks, organizing the file before slipping it into a cabinet.

“How’s the pay?”

“Not great. The hours are worse, but the owner of the establishment won’t look too closely into your background if you really need the job.”

Ricky thinks about it for all of ten seconds, eyeing the horrible striped tie that rests loose against Raglan’s neck. “I’ll pass.” Both on him and the job.

Raglan extends his hand. His grip is firm and warm, with the calluses of a working man rather than a pencil pusher. “If ever you change your mind and want to take it seriously, give Darla a call and she’ll schedule you in again,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the kindness of a father who's just trying to get his kid back on the right track.

Purely on instinct, Ricky straightens his posture. “Thanks for your time, Mr. R.”

The burning inside Ricky's nose serves as a portent of bad news, so he grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the front desk.

“Will you be visiting soon?” Darla asks, handing him a pen. “Or did Steve work his magic? I swear, that man can make miracles happen.”

He signs the form in hopes his former department head will take mercy, but it’s been six months of fighting a losing battle. “Jot me down for next month in case this one don’t work out.” Doesn’t matter how hard he bust his ass, so long as the shape of him doesn’t match their ideal of genius—as long as he doesn't look like the Steve Raglan’s of the world—the faculty will continue to refuse his merits.

Maybe it’s time to skip town.

“Okey-dokey,” Darla says, the green on her monitor telling him the offices are still running on MS-DOS Executive shells. The computer wheezes as she taps a nail on the screen. “I got you in for the 24th of August at 10 A.M. Hopefully we won’t see you, because not seeing you means life is finally on the up and up!”

He nods his head, certain he won’t be seeing any of these people ever again. “Thanks for that.”

Outside, the summer sun is blinding, and with its heat the layers of dread shed from his shoulders with a shiver. If he double-times it, he might make the 11:45 bus.

His attention snaps to a shiny object in the corner of his eye, slowing his stride.

He's seen his fair share of custom builds, of classics done up to look like movie props or emulate bad aesthetic choices by people with too much money and zero taste. But something about the 1975 Chevy Impala in that particular shade of magenta rubs him some kind of way.

Again, that feeling of having seen it somewhere before. Not so much a distant memory, but a hazy dream in the aftermath of a scary story told to him on a stormy night. The bed covers offer no protection. Mom and Dad aren’t home.

Jeremy isn’t in his room.

It’s not that there’s nothing left for him here, because there’s plenty of rot and festering grief to go around. There’s enough death in this neck of the woods to keep the bellies of monsters bloated, and while he's not quite done, he can’t help but feel the hot breathing at the back of his neck.

Fingers to his own skin, all he finds is a thin sheen of sweat and standing hairs. There’s no one behind him but an old woman being escorted up the stairs by a younger lady, both in conversation, both ignoring him.

Hands in his pockets, Ricky jogs up to the curb then keeps going, walking past the nearest bus stop, crossing an intersection, and only stopping when the discordant feeling along his spine dissipates.

Maybe getting out of Minnesota and starting a new life elsewhere, away from the carnage of his past, is the only way to survive.