The Agency for Fugitive Temps. Engaged when necessary to assist in damage control. Temps gone astray and jobs gone awry. With office outposts around the world, the AFT handles the paperwork, the protocol, the swishy cleanup of dark matters, derelict deeds, criminal materials. I take my place on the conveyor belt, at the back of the line for delinquent temps. All of us are carried along through a series of AFT interviews and questionnaires, fingerprinting and background checking, the belt delivering us past windows for stamping forms, cubbies for additional form distribution, and slots for the forms’ eventual deposit.

“And who is your standard agency contact?” the clerk asks me.

“Farren,” I say.

“They’re all Farrens! Which one is yours?”

“Farren, comma, City.”

“City Farren. Right. And who’s your family contact?”

“Also Farren?”

“And who’s your emergency contact?”

“I don’t know. Farren, I guess?”

“Oh, I see, I see.” The clerk murmurs something to another clerk, then they murmur in harmony. “And you were employed by a client named … Carl?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Oh gosh, don’t you just love that guy?”

“I guess.”

“But don’t you just really love him? Like, real soulmate love?”

“Maybe. Maybe I really did love him.” It hurts to think about it, but think about it I must. It’s part of the questionnaire.

“But not too much, right? Like real, nonsexy, soulmate love? Like he was your soulmate employer?”

“Is that a thing?”

“Oh, you! You’re funny.” The clerk laughs so hard she snorts. “Anyway. Eh. Nee. Way. Such a great boss, that Carl. We hear such great things! Such a shame about the whole prison situation, right?” the clerk asks with a conspiratorial tilt of the head.

“A real shame.” I look around and wonder, Are these other temps in quite as much trouble as I am? Or maybe their trouble is worse.

The conveyor belt dumps us in a waiting room where we sit and stew over our forthcoming placements.

“Temp Number Five! Number Five, come to the front for your placement!”

“Temp Number Fourteen! Oh no, I’m sorry. Temp Number Fifteen! Come to the front and bring your ticket.”

“The idea,” Temp Fourteen says with a nasal whisper, “is to keep us hidden, keep us repentant.” She reclaims her seat, ticket clutched in her hand.

“Are any of the fugitive placements desirable?” I ask.

“Oh no,” she says, conferring with some of the other women, dealing out sticks of gum like aces and queens. “But they’re a necessary beat on the path back to the steadiness. This is my third time through the AFT.”

This temp is twice my age, and her feet are now resting, elevated on a stool. She massages her ankles and curses the whole system. She’s been on this road long enough to know she should’ve already arrived. “When can a woman get a break?” this temp asks. No one answers. She waits for someone to answer; it wasn’t rhetorical. But we just chew our gum and look away. Long after my number is called, I imagine she waits there still.

I report for work at the designated location and am met by a blimp the size of the moon, hovering in the sky and lowering a ladder.

“Climb on up!” an amplified voice calls down.

I climb the dangling ropes and take my position in the clouds.