Chapter Text
There were several ways a person could disappear.
And after showing up to her old office one day, alive and mostly intact, with no explanation for the five months everyone else insisted had happened, Pomni had learned that most people only cared about the ones they could turn into a story.
A police report mattered. A hospital intake form mattered. A return-to-work evaluation, apparently, mattered.
The five months in between mattered less, not because people weren’t curious (they were, vividly), but because where do you even start? The headset? The pearly white overlord? The horrifying possibility that it had all been a dream, except dreams usually have the decency not to leave you horribly missing people that may have never existed?
So Pomni, a name she hadn’t heard since, had learned not to mention it.
And people, as they always do, moved on.
A cardboard box, borrowed from the copy room, now held the visible evidence of her professional life: two mugs, a handful of pens, her extra ProGo charger, and a crocodile desk figurine shaped like an old friend.
Her nameplate went in last.
Christine Park
Accounting Department
She turned it face down before she could decide whether this was for better or worse.
From the next cubicle over, her coworker made a sound of over-caffeinated sympathy.
“Last day in the cage, huh?”
“Last day in-office,” Christine corrected, because that was what HR called it, and because if she started calling it anything else she would have to actually think about it.
“Right, right. The medical work-from-home thing.” Marissa leaned back far enough that only her forehead and eyes appeared over the partition.
“God, Christi, I swear, if disappearing for five months gets you permanent remote work, I’m next.”
Christine looked up.
There were several answers available to her. Some honest, none useful.
So she forced a laugh.
Thankfully, it came out right: small, office-appropriate, harmless. The kind of laugh that told everyone she understood jokes, that she was normal about it, that she was not standing three feet from the void every time someone brought it up, that she was fine.
Marissa smiled, oblivious to the backflips Christine’s head was doing just to keep itself in the conversation.
“Seriously, though. Good for you.” She flicked a pen in her hand, “If I have to do one more summer on I-275, I might just start haunting this place.”
Christine looked up to her.
“I highly doubt that would be covered under the accommodation policy.”
“See what I mean?” Marissa pointed her pompom-topped pink pen right at her, “That’s why we need you. Accounting knows everything.”
Christine closed the cardboard flaps over her desk items. “I just do numbers.”
“Same thing to me!”
It wasn’t, but Christine had a feeling her cubical neighbor was on to something. Numbers were what got her into this mess: Five months gone. Three weeks back. Two HR meetings. One return-to-work evaluation. Four separate forms. All confirming that, while she was not a danger to herself or others, she was also apparently not expected to thrive under fluorescent lighting and casual questions about where she had been.
But the forms had never asked what the lights sounded like.
(That was probably for the best.)
Before she could sink deeper into her thoughts, her desk phone rang. Christine stared at it for three seconds longer than necessary before picking it up, because apparently disappearing did not exempt a person from taking calls.
“Accounting,” she said.
“Sorry, Christi.” It was Lena from reception, speaking in the careful voice people used when they knew they were handing you something stupid. “Do you mayyybe have a second?”
Christine looked at the box, then the clock, then the email from HR still open on her monitor.
Subject: Updated Accommodation Schedule-Final Confirmation Needed
“No.” She said.
Lena sighed. “Okay, so like, there’s this man in the lobby asking about an interview.”
Christine waited but Lena did not continue.
“For..accounting?”
“No.”
“For corporate?”
“Also no.”
Christine squinted at nothing in particular. “Then why are you calling accounting?”
“That’s like..a really, really good question.”
“Lena.”
“He says he’s here for a store position!”
“At headquarters.”
“Yes.”
“Did he mean the branch store across the freeway?”
“I asked. He said the email said this address.”
Christine rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.
Why today?
“Can’t you send him to HR?”
“I tried. HR says store-level hiring goes through the branch.”
“Then send him to the branch.”
“I tried that too.”
“And?”
“He said he doesn’t have a car.”
Christine opened her eyes in exasperation.
Through the glass wall that separated her floor from the lobby below, she could just make out the reception desk. Lena was there, visibly pressed, phone against her ear, pretending not to look at a man standing several feet away.
He was hilariously tall.
That was the first thing Christine noticed, mainly because he seemed to be using it irresponsibly. He leaned against nothing as if he had invented the concept, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a thin folder. His clothes were not interview clothes. Well, unless the interview was for a band that had broken up in a gas station parking lot.
The second thing she made note of is that he did not look nervous.
That was almost more concerning.
“What position?” Christine asked.
There was a pause. Paper shifted on Lena’s end.
“Uh...cart attendant?”
Christine looked at the man again.
He looked up, as if he had felt the glance through two floors and a pane of glass. When their eyes met, he raised the folder in something like a greeting.
Christine lowered the phone slightly.
“No.” She reaffirmed.
“I know,” Lena continued before making her voice small, “but he’s been very polite in a way that feels threatening.”
Christine audibly sighed.
“That is not my department.”
“He asked if there was someone upstairs who ‘could check.’”
“Still not my department."
“You’re already packed.”
“That makes me less available, not more.”
“Christi, I’m begging you.”
She turned to look at the HR email again, then the box, then back at the man in the lobby, who was studying the corporate directory with an odd confidence.
She exhaled.
“Alright..I’m coming down.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Thank you for not doing anything.”
—
The elevator down smelled faintly of carpet cleaner and someone’s lunch. Christine watched the numbers descend and practiced the expression she used for office problems: pleasant, neutral, dead behind the eyes (but only if you knew where to look).
When the elevator doors opened, the lobby poured in white and sterile. Headquarters had renovated right before she disappeared, which meant she came back to glass, white tile, and low furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable. Psych ward chic, she tried to joke.
As she stepped out, the ‘threateningly tall cart guy’ turned to face her.
Up close, he was younger than she had expected. Mid-to-late twenties, maybe, with hair that desperately needed a decision. His jacket had seen weather, not to mention the folder in his hand that looked like it had been through at least one life event.
He smiled before she reached him. It was a good smile, in the way a knife was a good knife.
“You must be corporate,” he said.
Christine stopped a safe, professional distance away. “I’m accounting.”
“Even better.” He grinned. “Do you guys still use calculators or is that old school?”
“We do not use them for this.”
Lena, from behind the reception desk, mouthed Christine a silent ‘thank you’ before becoming suddenly fascinated with her keyboard.
Christine turned back to him. “So you’re here for an interview?”
“That was the dream.”
“At headquarters.”
“Yep.”
“For a cart attendant position.”
He pushed what she could only imagine was an imaginary buggy. “You know. Carts.”
Christine waited for more, but alas, there was no more.
“You can’t just show up at headquarters for a store interview,” she said.
“Apparently I can.” He grinned with a concerning lack of concern. “I’m doing it right now.”
His answers were aloof enough that Christine should have been able to file him away as simply obnoxious. That would have been easier: Obnoxious people had categories.
But the jokes landed wrong. Not badly, just wrong.
Christine tried not to sigh and held out a hand. “Can I see the email?”
His smile shifted. “Be my guest.”
He opened the folder and shuffled through the pages inside. Too many of them, folded and refolded with frantic care. He found ‘the’ page and handed it over.
Christine read it once. Then again, because unfortunately, it did contain this address.
“This is headquarters,” she started, pointing to the address just under the company name and happy ‘Fresh for Everyone’ slogan surrounded by produce.
“So I’ve gathered.”
“The branch location is listed here.” Her finger fell to the body of the email, where not only the address but instructions on how to get there via bus and if coming by car, where to park, were clearly written.
He leaned in, squinting at the page. “Is it now?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
She looked up to him only to be met with a concerningly unconcerned look.
“In my defense,” he shrugged, “there are a lot of numbers on there.”
Are you fucking kidding me.
Is what Christine would like to say, but that’s not office-friendly lingo.
Behind the desk, Lena coughed into her hand.
Christine inhaled slowly through her nose. “Mr. Reed–”
“Cam.”
“Mr. Reed,” Christine repeated, because she had not agreed to that, “store-level interviews happen at the store, known to us here as a branch.”
“Good to know for next time.”
“There may not be a next time.”
“Less good.”
He was still smiling and it bothered her.
Not the smile itself, but the force behind it. Like if he stopped, something worse would arrive and everyone in the lobby would be required to acknowledge it.
Christine gave him a long stare then looked down at the email again. “I’m going to call the branch.”
“Great.”
“This does not guarantee anything.”
“There it is.”
Something bitter caught in his tone and Christine looked back up.
“Sorry,” he said through that grin. “That one got away from me.”
With the last remaining scrap of her professional composure, she decided not to reply.
Lena let her use the reception phone without making direct eye contact and Christine dialed the number listed on the email, watching this ‘Cam Reed’ while it rang.
He had stepped away from the desk and was now pretending to read a brochure about employee wellness initiatives. He held it upside down for three full seconds before turning it around.
Someone picked up on the fourth ring.
“Store 1182, this is Daniel.”
“Hi Daniel, this is Christine Park from the accounting department. I’m calling about an applicant who appears to have come to headquarters by mistake.”
A silence.
Then an, “Oh no.”
Christine closed her eyes. “So you know who I mean.”
“Is it perchance a C. Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. Okay. So that’s..yeah.”
Christine opened her eyes to squint at the security feed behind Lena’s desk. Cam had abandoned the wellness brochure and was now looking at the security camera in the corner of the lobby with open suspicion.
“He says he’s here for a cart attendant interview,” she continued, failing to entirely ignore Cam on screen.
“He was supposed to come here."
“So I’ve gathered.”
“We tried calling him.”
“And?”
“Number disconnected.”
Christine looked blankly at him through the security screen.
Cam noticed and gave the camera a little wave.
How the..
“His application has some issues,” Daniel said.
“What kind of issues?” She really didn’t need to know.
“The kind where I sent it to my district manager and she asked if it was fake.”
“For a cart attendant?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I really don’t want to be.”
Daniel gave a tired laugh. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. The address is for an apartment complex that got bought out, repainted beige, and renamed something with ‘Palm’ in it. ID on file is expired. Phone number’s dead. Emergency contact is blank. Work history just stops.”
Christine’s grip tightened around the receiver.
“Stops,” she repeated.
“Five, six years ago, looks like.”
The lobby noise thinned.
For a moment, all Christine could process was the air conditioning humming overhead, the squeak of Lena’s chair, and the distant ding of an elevator arriving on some other floor.
Across the lobby, Cam had put both hands in his jacket pockets. He was looking at nothing now, the wellness brochure forgotten on the table beside him.
Christine made herself blink.
“Since when do we run background checks on cart attendants?” She finally managed, because that was the easier question.
“It’s not a background check exactly. We just need to verify basic employment eligibility. Identity, address, that kind of thing.”
“And you can’t.”
“Nope. We can’t.”
Christine watched Cam shift his weight from one foot to the other. The movement was almost too casual.
Daniel lowered his voice, though there was no reason to. “Honestly, if he’s still there, I’d just tell him not to come in. We can’t hire another kid without valid ID.”
“Don’t tell me that.”
“You’re accounting.”
“And you’re a branch manager.”
Another pause.
“I know,” Daniel said again, and this time he sounded less like a supervisor and more like a person who had no idea what to do with a loose human being who had fallen out of the filing system.
Christine peaked at ‘Cam’, who was pretending very hard not to care. Not enough to call security, but enough to make her pause.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell him.”
“Sorry.”
“Sure.” She hung up.
For a second, she stayed where she was, her hand still resting on the phone.
This is not a real person, her brain supplied unhelpfully.
You don’t just fall off the grid for five years and stumble in here for a job.
She paused, running back on her words.
You don’t just fall off the grid and..
“So,” Cam interrupted, having walked back over after she hung up.
“So,” she nodded, giving herself a moment to recenter.
“Typically, cart attendant interviews do not happen at corporate headquarters.”
“Righttttt.” The grin. “We covered that.”
“And technically, they are not going to happen at the branch today either.”
His expression did not change.
Christine shifted the email in her hand. “There are some issues with your application.”
“Tragic.”
“Documentation issues.”
“Less tragic. More boring.”
“Mr. Cameron Reed.”
“Wow,” he took a step closer. “Bad sign when accounting uses the government name.”
She looked at him with less of a reaction than he expected.
“I’m trying to explain this in a way that isn’t...” She searched for a word. “Terrible.”
“Off to a great start.”
“You didn’t get the job.” She blurted out.
He blinked.
Christine hated herself immediately.
“But maybe not because of you,” she added.
There was a pause.
And then a laugh.
“That,” he said, “is the worst motivational poster I’ve ever heard.”
“I-”
“You workshop that upstairs?”
“No, you-.”
“Shame. Could’ve used a kitten hanging from a branch.”
“Your ID is expired.” Christine redirected. “Your phone number doesn’t work. They can’t verify your address. They can’t process your application until those things are fixed.”
Cam looked down at the folder, and for the first time since she had walked into the lobby, he seemed his age.
Then he looked up, the grin back.
“Great. So I’m not unemployable.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m administratively fictional.”
Christine couldn’t decide if she was supposed to laugh.
“Start with a valid ID.” She replied, refolding the email and holding it back out to him.
“Uh huh.”
“And a working phone number.”
“Easy.”
“And a current address.”
“Getting demanding now.”
“Mr. Reed.”
He took the paper from her.
“Thanks.”
It was the first thing he had said without throwing something sharp over it. The word sat there between them, plain and uncomfortable.
Christine nodded once. “Good luck.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s always been enough.”
Can tucked the paper back into his folder before giving Lena a little salute on his way toward the doors, which Lena returned weakly because it was Lena.
The glass doors slid open and before Christine could muster up anything resembling a ‘Have a nice day!’ and the summer heat poured in; bright, sticky, and immediate. Cam stepped into it like it was no worse than anywhere else, disappearing like nowhere had been expecting him.
Christine stood in the lobby longer than she meant to, holding nothing, responsible for nothing, and finally free of duties for the day.
Yet she wondered, against every professional instinct she had left, whether he was going to be okay.
Because he had not been okay.
Not in any way she could name.
But close enough to something she didn’t know how to leave behind.