The grey floor

The offer letter said $94,000 a year for data entry, and you were desperate enough not to ask why. Now, on your first morning at Halden & Roe, you understand the question you should have asked. The eleventh floor is a hum of fluorescent light and keystrokes, and every single person at every single desk is the same woman: grey skin, black hair pulled into a smooth donut bun, dark grey suit over a light grey shirt and tie. They do not look up. They do not stretch. Their eyes are solid black, no white at all, and not one of their faces carries an expression.

"Orientation is brief," said the recruiter on the phone, and it was. A woman identical to all the others slid a lanyard across a desk, pointed to your chair, and said: "Work continues until work is done." When Deshaun asked about lunch, she tilted her head a precise five degrees and said, "Breaks reduce throughput." Then she walked away, heels striking the carpet in perfect metronome, and joined a row of herself at the copiers.

You sit down at your assigned terminal. The spreadsheet on screen is endless — names, dates, numbers that resolve into nothing when you try to read them whole. Your five coworkers are scattered down the row, all of you exchanging glances that are half joke, half plea. But it's the clock that bothers you. You checked it when you sat down: 8:04. You check it now, certain only minutes have passed, and it reads 11:47. Your hands haven't stopped typing the whole time. Your throat is very dry, and you cannot remember deciding to keep working.