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Tarek
“I know it seems bad. But if we keep trying, we’re going to figure it out. We’re just in a bit of a rut.”
Coffee sounds delicious right about now. Oh, sweet caffeine. How I long for its forgiving, patient embrace.
Sloane gesticulates madly as I hold up the prototype. Green lights run over the black device, perfectly adaptable to any face. In the dim light of my office, the green shines especially vividly, running from the visor to the strap. It looks like something dreamed up in a science fiction movie, and yet its purpose is so innocuous.
“I hope this thing works as well as our testing has made out,” I say aloud.
She looks at me, puzzled, on her way back from her thirty-fourth round of pacing.
“What?”
“The insomnia mask. Thing is, I might be getting insomnia myself. Our tests say it’s supposed to work, and the numbers stand by that. But there are so many root causes for insomnia.”
She stands in front of a whiteboard, on which she’s written a mad combination of letters and phrases. I’m sure to us it makes sense, but to an outsider, it’s all scribblings. It’s all going to be erased, but it’s every stray utterance and idea over the past several hours, written down incoherently.
I remember when it was used for targeted production schedules and Scrum. Now there are phrases all over the board like “rush to production?” and “follow to lunch Thursday.”
“What does insomnia have to do with corporate theft?”
“Stress, for example,” I say, holding the mask up as I imagine it stretching over my face. “Stress can cause insomnia. And I know this device is powerful. But does it really cure stress?”
“You know we’re going to figure this out, don’t you?”
I twitch, bringing my hand to my jaw. I need to do something with my hands.
Her gaze is a million miles off.
I feel myself starting to doze off, and I subtly slap my face.
It’s true that I don’t see a way out of this, and I don’t know how we’re ever going to find our spy.
But with me working the case and Sloane on my side, how can we fail?
Sloane is far more competent than anybody I’ve ever worked with. I wasn’t wrong to put my faith in her.
“I know,” I say, yawning widely.
Then, as I stretch my arms over my head and feel my spine pop, I realize that I’ve opened myself up to attack.
I put my arms back down.
“Okay,” Sloane says. “Because sometimes, I feel like you’re really starting to doubt me.”
Her arms are folded over each other, a dry-erase marker dangling loosely between her index finger and thumb. She huddles close to the whiteboard, and I’m not sure whether she’s jealously guarding the ideas on the board, or clinging to the thought that there’s something she needs to write down if she could only remember what…
“I hired you, didn’t I?”
I can see my words haven’t eased her doubts.
“Can we go over the plan one more time?” she asks. “Just so I can be sure we’ve got it down?”
It’s the fourteenth time we’ve gone over the plan. Outside the office window, crickets chirp emphatically, and the first birdsong calls out over the city.
It’s early morning now. I’m quite certain that at this point, we’ve long since passed our point of diminishing returns. My brain has lost all focus. Everybody left the office so long ago that they’ll soon be returning for their gossip and morning coffee.
“I suppose that’s fair,” I say, wanting to remind her that she’s got this under control but realizing that she needs to know that herself. I wonder why she’s suddenly doubting herself so much.
