Monday, September 22. My Apartment.

When my alarm went off Monday morning, I reminded myself of two important facts: I liked to eat, and I really didn't want to move back in with my parents at thirty-five. 

Dan still lived with his mom—but Dan was a special case. His first startup had taken off before graduation, and he’d bought the house. Technically, she lived with him.

I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. My head pounded and the room seemed to swim just a hair out of focus as I waited for the tiny water heater to grudgingly supply warm water.

A stab of pain flared across my side.

Right. Some idiot kid high on something had clawed me last night.

I still wasn't sure why I'd thought handling it myself was a good idea.

I turned to check the mirror—and froze.

There was a tattoo on my chest.

I didn’t have any tattoos.

I splashed cold water on my face.

Checked again.

It was still there. 

Waking up to a surprise tattoo was one thing.

This wasn't a small one.

It stretched across my chest, as wide as my hand with my fingers splayed. A stylized Yggdrasil in a rich brown ink—or at least the version I vaguely remembered from mythology memes and Marvel movies. Branches brushed my collarbone. Roots fanned across my ribs.

The tree was withered.

Dying.

I prodded at it and hissed. 

The skin was tender.

I pawed through my memories of the previous night as I climbed into the shower. The barely warm water stung as it hit my torso. Was there anywhere I didn’t hurt today? 

I remembered the LAN party. Leaving.

Getting tangled up with some kids while waiting for my ride—why, I couldn’t recall. That didn’t sit right. Why hadn’t I called the police? I’d clearly been attacked. Felt threatened enough to defend myself. And then I just…walked away?

At least the physical evidence supported that version of events.

The bruises and gashes were theirs.

I’d come home, cleaned up, and crashed. 

No winding down. No scrolling. No ceiling-staring.

Just out.

So how the heck did I have fresh ink?

I shut the water off and grabbed a towel. 

The tattoo was still there when I climbed out. 

I leaned closer. 

The detail was incredible. What I'd taken for shading wasn't shading at all. It was made up of hundreds of tiny lines woven through the design.

I tried to identify them.

Runes? No. Too complicated.

Constellations? Did that many even exist?

I put more antiseptic on my wounds, then padded down the short hall to my room. 

I was no expert, but I was reasonably sure linework this fine had to take hours. Definitely more than one session.

I dug out clothes for the office, hissing as my sides protested. A dress shirt was going to be murder, and I didn't have any gauze. 

The scratches had swollen into angry red welts, but they weren't actively bleeding. Hopefully that meant I could make it through the workday without staining my clothes. 

I found an undershirt and finished dressing. The tattoo made no more sense now than it had ten minutes ago. 

Checked my phone for last night’s ride receipts. Ride-share said I’d been picked up at Matt’s subdivision. Dropped off at my place. Other than being dropped off for the LAN party, there were no other stops. No other receipts.

Where had the tattoo come from?  

No time to sort this out. I grabbed a microwave lunch from the freezer and dashed out to my car... 

…and slid into my chair at the office five minutes before eight.

Inexplicable fresh ink hadn’t stopped me from grabbing my usual energy drink and hot biscuit at the corner gas station on my way in. I cracked open the drink while my computer booted up.

Just as I was about to take a sip, my boss appeared as if she’d been waiting for me to arrive. That was never a good sign. 

She made it look like she just happened to be walking by, but seven years at this firm had taught me otherwise. Brandi Caldwell was a meticulous planner who never just happened to do anything.

“Halberg.”

I set down my drink. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I need you to take over the MacMarster account.” 

She slapped a stack of folders on my desk.

I worked very hard to keep my expression pleasant. 

MacMarster was a nightmare. Their records had to be combed through, and when that failed, a lengthy phone call to their assistant might eventually produce the missing information, assuming it could first be located in whatever filing system had survived since the Reagan administration. 

“I thought Jameson was handling MacMarster.”

“He is tied up with Griffin. You caught Elwyn up in record time. I’m sure MacMarster will be no trouble.”

I wanted to tell my boss exactly what she could do with the MacMarster accounts. Instead, I smiled. Jobs were scarce, bills weren’t. Survival beat satisfaction every time.

Satisfied, she left.

I resisted the urge to grab the stack of folders and feed them to the shredder. I also managed to keep the long, long list of unpleasant (but definitely earned) names I called my boss inside my head.

She’d conveniently overlooked that I’d already been saddled with two other problem accounts just last week. Nor had she shuffled any of my other clients to someone else. Clearly, I was expected to handle MacMarster on top of my already teetering work load.

I took a sip of my drink.

It tasted off.

Checked the can. Expiration date was early next year. With a shrug, I tried another cautious sip.

Ugh. 

That was revolting. A bad batch perhaps? 

I set the can to the side and took a bite of biscuit.

It tasted like ash.

My stomach immediately objected. I grabbed the trash can and spat out the bite. 

Great. Just great. What an abso-fu—

“Nate?”

Tina from four cubicles over poked her head in. She was pleasant enough. And absolutely hopeless at getting things done on time.

“Have a good week—“ She leaned in, studying me. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I managed through gritted teeth. 

“You look pale.”

Did I? My stomach gave an unhappy flop. I ignored it and plastered on a smile I did not feel.

“I got the MacMarster account,” I said.  

She nodded and bit her lip. “Oh.”

Her shoulders drooped.

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t get the numbers on Alwynn’s account reconciliation to add up. I’ve checked it three times—and Ms. Caldwell wants it this afternoon.”

I knew Tina was using me. 

She knew I knew.

But a lady asked—and somewhere in my head a voice whispered: don’t leave her stranded. 

“Send it to me. I’ll see what I can figure out.”

“Thank you!” She beamed and dashed away.

I scrubbed a hand through my hair. 

Was I a sucker? Or simply a pushover? I had no freaking idea. All I knew was that I was very ready for the day to be over. 

My vision blurred at the edges. My head pounded. I closed my eyes and buried my head in my hands.

My inbox dinged.

The tattoo I couldn’t freaking explain throbbed.

Yeah, I wasn’t going to think about that at all.

I looked at the energy drink and biscuit sitting on my desk. 

Both went in the trash. The awful taste remained.

The office had water somewhere, right?

Tina had screwed up Alwynn so badly, it took me most of the morning to unscramble—which meant I wouldn’t get to start on my own fresh load of trouble Caldwell had gifted me until after my mandatory lunch break.

 The tell-tale signs of hangry were setting in when I finally sent Tina a terse message that her files were ready. I trudged into our tiny break room and dug my lunch out of the freezer. A strong odor lingered in the air and my stomach, which was still uneasy, gave another lurch. 

What was that smell? 

It lingered in the air—putrid and stale. I gave up trying to identify it and shoved my lunch into the microwave, breathing through my mouth. 

Thirty seconds later, the break room gained a new aroma: warm, wet socks.

I stared at the microwave.

No.

Was that my lunch?

I opened the microwave.

Gym locker room on steroids punched me in the face.

My lunch went in the trash. I tied the bag shut for good measure. 

The odor remained.

I fled to the parking garage. 

For my perfectly useless lunch break, I ended up sitting on the hood of my car, far away from everyone else’s food, and staring at the sky—or at least the sliver of it that could be seen from the parking garage. 

The sky was…peaceful.

 Blue bled into gray with cloud shapes I don’t think I had ever noticed. I might have stayed there the rest of the afternoon… 

…but I was now the proud manager of the MacMarster account. That meant dragging my hangry butt back inside and reminding myself to be nice to Marcie when I called for the forms that were missing.

The cleaning crew was making their rounds when I left. 

I was the last one at the office. Again.

I hadn't been able to eat all day. Every attempt had ended with me staring at the food like it was biohazardous waste.

The tap water smelled terrible. Since when did water have a smell?

The only thing I'd managed to drink was a bottle of water I'd scavenged from the company fridge.

When I got home, I had one thought:

Food. 

Give me food.

I barely paused to kick off my shoes and ditch my tie before digging through the fridge for something that smelled edible.

I still had Friday’s after-work carry-out from my favorite pizzeria. Grabbed the box.

Opened it.

It smelled like rancid wet cardboard.

Urck.

I slammed the box closed and shoved it back into the fridge.

Next option was the leftovers Mom insisted I take home after Sarah and I ate with my parents Thursday. I tugged back the foil covering the repurposed margarine tub. Mom had loaded it with a generous helping of her chicken, rice, and cream-of-something casserole. Probably several somethings.

The smell hit me—sour, like mayonnaise left in the sun and then shoved back into the fridge.

I gagged and smashed the foil back down.

Bug. It had to be a bug.

Or maybe food poisoning.

That was the logical explanation.

I hoped it had skipped Sarah. We’d only seen each other briefly Saturday—she’d had to spend the rest of the weekend prepping for a crazy week at her school.

Sarah.

I hadn’t messaged her last night—or today. 

Shoved the offending leftovers back into the fridge and dug out my phone. Sure enough, she’d messaged me as soon as she left work.

Sarah: How was your day? My class was fine, except for the usual trouble-makers. Pilates tonight at 7. Then I’ll be grading papers.

Days like today, I envied her. Her messages were always tidy, upbeat little check-ins. Some days, her cheerful voice was all that got me through.

I typed a quick response. She probably was still at the gym.

Me: Just got home. Boss gave me a crap project.   Hopefully I can get out in time for dinner tomorrow.

…which meant today had been a dumpster fire and I wasn’t up for talking. We’d been together long enough she’d understand.

Hopefully whatever this was would be over by the morning. It had only been a few days, but I missed her.

The skin on my chest felt tight, like it was a size too small. I shucked off my button-down and rubbed a hand over my chest, trying to think of anything else I could eat.

A sharp stab of—something. Not pain, not exactly—flared beneath my fingertips. I glanced down, alert. Soft, rich brown ink showed faintly through my undershirt.

Oh, yeah. I also had a mystery tattoo. 

My sides were still mangled. As if they'd been waiting for my attention, the welts immediately reminded me they existed. I winced as fire flared across my torso.

It was a miracle I had lasted the full day at the office. How had I tuned out all this noise?

The bathroom mirror wasn’t kind. The claw marks were red, swollen and felt warm to touch. If I hadn’t known better, I’d think a cat had clawed me, not some kid.

I couldn’t see anything wrong with the tattoo area, not even the puffy redness that usually accompanied fresh ink, but when I tentatively touched one of the branches, the skin felt raw.

A flicker of motion caught my eye. I leaned closer.

The lines shifted.

Were the branches…moving?

No way.

I rubbed my eyes. 

Bug, I reminded myself. 

Forget food. I’d shower, smear more antiseptic on those scratches...

And then bed. 

I was dead tired.

Maybe I was just getting old.

Couldn’t eat. 

Tattoo I couldn’t explain. 

Chest squeezing like a vice. 

Side clawed raw.

…yeah. Old sounded about right.