“The thing is, I lost my job. I lost my job, my home, and while trying to hold on to the life I had, I’ve … um … I’ve been too ashamed to tell you because I don’t know how to fix it.”
I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t make my voice work through the tears and the tightness in my chest and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally saying it out loud.
“Fuck.”
2
KAI
The word hangsin the air, followed by a shuffling sound and then the click of the shutting door. I stay perfectly still behind the equipment panel where I’ve been crouched for the last ten minutes, my legs cramping and my heart still racing.
I count to ten, making sure he’s really gone. My left leg has gone half-numb from the awkward angle. When I came in to fix a loose cable connection twenty minutes ago, I didn’t expect someone to walk in. Didn’t expect what I heard.
I extract myself slowly, my joints protesting as I stretch as much as I can, considering my six-foot-one frame.
The chair where Atlas sat is empty. The headphones rest on their hook, slightly askew. Everything else looks the same as before he walked in.
But nothing feels the same.
The red light is still on. Still running. His entire confession, from the first hesitant words about his parents’ marriage to that final brokenfuckrecorded.
I should stop the recording. Add it to the archive like every other story.
But this isn’t like every other story.
This is someone’s private devastation. Yes, he pressed the button himself, and he chose to speak. But he didn’t know I was here. That he had an audience. And I heard the way his voice cracked when he said he didn’t know how to fix any of this.
I press the red button. The light goes dark. The recording device hums once, processing.
And I make a decision.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a memory stick. I navigate to Atlas’s file and copy it.
The transfer takes seconds. The file lives on the memory stick now, separate from the system, private and portable.
Then I go back into the main archive. Find his file again.
I delete the file. The system asks if I’m sure. I click Yes. The file disappears from the main archive, from the backup system, from everywhere except the memory stick in my pocket. I check twice to make sure it’s gone.
Then I stand up, tucking the memory stick carefully into my front pocket. The Airstream needs to be secured for the night, but first, I need to find Atlas.
He’s probably out there somewhere, thinking his confession is now part of the permanent archive. Probably terrified about what happens when his parents listen to it. Spiraling into the same panic I heard in his voice.
He needs to know he can breathe.
I check the equipment one more time, turn off the lamp, and step out into the cool evening air.
This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. I remember his voice clearly but have no idea what he looks like.
I’m about to turn toward the building when I notice someone sitting on the bench under the largest pine tree. His head is in his hands, shoulders curved inward like he’s trying to disappear. That has to be him.
I can’t believe I’m about to tell a stranger that I witnessed his most vulnerable moment. There’s no good way to do this.
When I reach the bench, I sit down, leaving space between us.
The wood is cool through my jeans, and the evening air carries the smell of pine and flowers. Unusual for this time of year in Colorado.
Atlas stills when I sit down. His hands drop from his face and he turns his head, startled. In the dim light, his eyes are red-rimmed, his face blotchy from crying. He looks young and exhausted and completely undone.
