“It’s probably just a blood sugar issue,” Dr. Bronson says, her voice carrying over the Camry’s speakers. I watch the rivulets of rain snake down the windshield as I sit warm and cozy in my idling car. “The bloodwork will give us a better picture of what’s going on.”
I nod, despite knowing the doctor can’t see me, and tap my thumbs against the lower rim of the steering wheel. From my parking spot on this side street, I can see Kara through the bakery’s display window across the street, moving around the display case to arrange the pastries and treats just so.
“The lab closes at five,” Dr. Bronson adds. “If you can get there before noon, they should be able to process your bloodwork before the end of the day.”
“I’ll take an early lunch,” I promise. It’s Wednesday, which tends to be our slowest day of the week. I usually let the boys open so I can catch up on admin work in the back office, but today I woke up exhausted and slept in a couple of extra hours—if rolling out of bed at seven instead of five even qualifies as sleeping in.
“Wonderful,” Dr. Bronson says. “I’ll transfer you to the front desk so you can make an appointment with Maia—early next week, remember. I don’t think you’re in imminent danger, but I don’t want to let this condition linger undiagnosed for too long.”
“Early next week,” I parrot, bobbing my head in another unnecessary nod.
I make my appointment for the coming Monday, when the shop is closed, then hang up and turn off the car. I grab my bag from the passenger seat, settling the strap on my shoulder, and push open the door. I pull up the hood of my coat and duck my head to shield my face from the rain as I hurry down the street to Sullivan’s Fine Meats.
The bell over the door jingles cheerfully as I enter, and both Kent and Mark look up from their cutting at two of the three blocks behind the service counter, my arrival stalling their animated conversation. The display case is still only partially filled with cuts of meat, as is usual for this early hour. By ten, it will be packed with steaks and roasts and chicken parts, and by four, it will be decently picked over. Perks of being the only meat shop in town.
Our product might be pricier than what folks can find at the grocery store up the street, but our customers appreciate the value of buzzwords like locally sourced, free-range, hormone-free, sustainable, and organic, and they know that any cut of meat that comes from Sullivan’s Fine Meats isn’t just paying lip service to those ideals. I personally visit each of our suppliers every quarter to ensure the quality and animal welfare standards meet our criteria. Our reputation depends on my diligence.
“Morning, boys,” I say as I approach the counter.
“Boss,” Mark says with a nod.
Kent lifts his chin in greeting. “How’s it hanging, Jane?”
“It’s still not,” I say, passing between their blocks on my way to the back.
I push through the pair of swinging doors on either end of the pass-through dish-washing area, and once I’m in the back hallway, I set my bag on the rack beside the bulletin board displaying this month’s shift and delivery schedules. I swap my coat for the apron and knife scabbard hanging from my designated hook in the line of hooks drilled into the wall below the bulletin board. I listen to the guys’ conversation as I don the apron.
“But it really makes you think, man,” Mark says. “Like, what if this is all just some virtual reality simulation? Like, what if none of this is really real?”
“I know, man,” Kent says. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Like, we could be in The Matrix right now.”
I tilt my head to the side, pondering what I’m hearing. Clearly, the guys need to lay off the weed. As I knot the tie around my waist, I ponder the merits of drug testing. And then I promptly toss the idea away. I know my employees. If I started drug testing for marijuana, I wouldn’t have any workers left.
“Yeah,” Mark says. “I mean, I remember the first time I saw The Matrix, like, way back when my babysitter was watching it. After that, one time I had déjà vu, and I was like, ‘Whoa! Where’s the glitch? What’s been rewritten?’”
“Dude,” Kent says. “Exactly.”
I cinch my scabbard belt just so, my own thoughts drifting toward the scenario posed in The Matrix—a simulated reality so real that humans aren’t aware that they’re actually being used as living batteries out in the real world. That was where the movie lost me. Why humans? What makes us such perfect batteries for our evil machine overlords? I know enough about the anatomy of animals to know that one mammal is pretty much the same as the next. Why not use cows? They’re larger, and I doubt they would question the reality of their endless simulated fields.
I laugh under my breath and shake my head. And then I freeze, an unsettling thought striking me. Every time I’ve been struck by vertigo, I was remembering something that turned out to be wrong—turning thirty-nine last year and then buying the car ten years ago. At the party, I even experienced déjà vu when talking to Kara about getting old. If I tell these guys about it, I’m certain I will blow their minds and leave them convinced that we really are living in a simulation. And possibly that I am the one.
I smirk at that thought, then dismiss the whole silly notion. I push through the swinging doors and reenter the shop floor. I suck in a breath to join the conversation, but before I can get a single word out, the ground lurches, and I have to lean on the stainless-steel counter to keep myself from stumbling sideways. A stack of long metal trays slated for the display case clatter onto the tiles. Of course, the floor isn’t actually shifting. It’s all in my head. But that knowledge doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m on a tiny boat bobbing in choppy waters.
“What the shit?” I grind out, my head bowed and my eyes squeezed shut.
One of the guys places a hand on my lower back. I would bet anything it’s Kent. He’s always been the touchy type. The guys tease that he’s an HR complaint waiting to happen. His touch usually would have annoyed me, but at the moment, I’m grateful for his grounding presence.
“Whoa there, Jane,” Kent says, his voice low and close. “Are you okay?”
I swallow roughly. The dizziness is abating. “I think so,” I say. The world has stabilized enough that I risk opening my eyes. “Yeah. I’m good. Just low blood sugar, I’m sure.” I flash Kent a grateful smile, warmed by the genuine concern written all over his face, and sidestep away. Now that the vertigo has passed, I’m less of a fan of his hand on my body.
Mark is still standing at his block, but he has put his knife down and his knees are bent like he’s ready to lunge forward and catch me if I suddenly collapse.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Mark says. “My mom is hypoglycemic. She says orange juice helps the best when her blood sugar dips.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb. “I can run across the street and grab a bottle of OJ from the bakery.”
I open my mouth, intending to refuse, but then my mom’s voice whispers through my mind. You have to take care of yourself, Janie. I nod instead, my eyes suddenly stinging with welling tears. “That would be great,” I say, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
Mark hustles over to the sink on the sidewall and washes his hands, then hurries toward the shop door.
Kent retrieves the footstool from the place where it’s tucked under the shelving unit holding oversize jars of spice mixes, and I sit.
His hovering makes me self-conscious, and I clear my throat again. “So,” I say, breaking the awkward silence. “Did you guys watch The Matrix last night?”
A crease forms between Kent’s brows, and he shakes his head, looking utterly confused. “No. We watched Point Break—you know, the one with Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze?”
Now I’m the one with a creased brow.
Kent leans back against the counter and stares out the front window, chuckling under his breath. “Wouldn’t it be nuts if you found out someone you thought you knew was really an undercover cop?” He glances down at me, his eyebrows rising as his voice gains enthusiasm. “I mean, like, you, Jane. Like, what if you were secretly an FBI agent planted here to uncover a secret ring of, like, drug smugglers or gun runners or something? That would be totally crazy, right?”
I frown, utterly baffled. “Yeah, that would be nuts.” I shake my head, unable to let the matter drop. “You know, I could’ve sworn you guys were talking about The Matrix when I first got here.”
That crease is back in Kent’s brow, and I can’t help but think he looks like a lost puppy. He shakes his head. “Nah, I haven’t seen that one since I was a kid. I think I watched it with my babysitter.” He nods to himself. “Pretty trippy, though.”
“Yeah,” I say, studying his face. So far as I can tell, he’s being completely genuine. He honestly doesn’t remember talking about it. “Pretty trippy,” I repeat.
The bell over the shop door jingles as Mark returns. I thank him for the orange juice and retreat down the back hallway to my office. My knives clang in their scabbard as I sink into my desk chair.
“What the actual fuck is going on?” I mutter, staring at the closed door as though I can see through it and the wall beyond to the two young men on the shop floor.
They were talking about The Matrix. I’m certain of it. Just like I was certain I was turning forty. Just like I was certain I bought the Camry ten years ago. But then I had a vertigo spell, and what I thought I knew no longer matched up with reality.
None of this makes any sense. Either something is seriously wrong with the world, or something is seriously wrong with me.