The day I went missing started off pretty well.

I woke up five minutes before my alarm, which put me ahead of the morning rush hour traffic through the outskirts of Tampa. The weather was mildly warm for early January, and the humidity was low, which meant my hair wouldn't frizz, and long sleeves wouldn't be necessary until the evening. 

I knew something was going on when I carried my breakfast into the lobby of our call center and found a Hillsborough County deputy sheriff in the Human Resources office talking with Marge, our head of HR. Two white boxes were perched on her desk.

Wel,l that’s not good, I thought, avoiding their gaze as I passed.

Owen Hernandez and Robert White, my two closest friends at work, shot me looks as they walked in the front doors together, their discussion on the newest Star Wars movie effectively ended. 

The three of us had been working with the university long enough to know what those boxes combined with a deputy sheriff meant; there would be layoffs that day. My pleasant morning crumbled to sickening trepidation, twisting my stomach and turning my omelet bland in my mouth. 

There had been two layoffs over the last three years, bringing us from over four hundred or so employees to a meager hundred and fifty. It was the product of a buyout and attempt to rebrand with a better reputation. All but four campuses had closed nationwide, and we were the last remaining call center out of three. We knew this was coming, but we hadn't expected it so soon.

My friends and I didn't say a word while we made our way to our desks.

Nobody on the call floor seemed to have the energy to speak, and, as more and more people came into their cubicles, the atmosphere grew heavy and thick.

(Have you ever experienced the hours leading up to the outer bands of a hurricane moving inland? Everything looks normal, but the lighthearted atmosphere flees like birds abandoning the coast.)

A hurricane was brewing, and we braced to see the aftermath.

I didn't want to check my email, even when I put on my headset, logged into my queue, and accessed my first call.

 "Thank you for calling Student Finance. This is Grace on a recorded line. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" I forced my cheery, customer service voice out, something I never had to do before. A glance over at Rob, who flashed me a thumbs up and a grimace, told me the strain was obvious.

I went through the motions, and, honestly, I think the unease in the air affected me more than anything. An hour rolled by, and my email stayed empty except for some verification documents from students.

Another hour, and still, nothing.

Across the call center floor, I watched as directors left their cubicles and met in whispered huddles.

Lisa Bartlet, my director, stayed at her desk, and it gave me some comfort. Obviously, she hadn't gotten her list yet.

I tossed my grenade-shaped stress ball over the short divider and asked her with my eyes if our team was clear. She shrugged, not breaking away from the escalated call she was on, but there was something in her gray gaze that halted the comfort rising in my chest.

Then, eleven o'clock rolled onto my computer screen, my headset beeped loudly. It clicked and buzzed, before disconnecting the student who was explaining why she needed to increase her loan amounts. 

"Everyone, sign out of your queues! We're closing the lines down for now!" Justin Long, our location manager, called out from his office door as he closed it.

The whispers started.

They were drowned out, however, by the resounding ping, ping, ping, ping of multiple computers indicating new emails. I sucked in a breath and stared at my screen. 

All around me, people began to stand. It wasn't scattered either. Whole rows were locking their computers and shaking their heads. 

Ping, Robert stood up. 

Ping, Lisa stood up, and across the room, so did Owen.

Ping, my computer screen flashed a notification. I opened it and dread stole stomach.

All employees are to report to the Town Hall room for a meeting immediately. Log out of your computer. No materials are needed.

All one hundred and fifty of us on the call floor— as well as every janitor, every director, and even the receptionists— filed into the room.

I couldn't focus on what was being said because I was mentally tallying how much money I had in savings and how long I could pay my bills while searching for a job. Still, I caught snippets of the speech.

The online portion would close down in two months, and only one campus would remain. A single student finance team would remain on location to out-process the students to another online school that had agreed to take them at our tuition rates and accept their credits, and then that team would be transferred to the campus. Owen's registrar team would remain on location until the shutdown was finished and then relocate to the ground campus. The rest of the employees would be paid for the next two months as normal, and then they would be given a severance package.

I went up to the desk to collect my packet and learn my fate.

Would I be staying and transferred, or would I be sent packing that day to start job hunting?

My heart pounded, and my mouth filled with cotton. Cautiously, I opened the flap.

It wasn't a surprise that I was sent packing.

Robert was staying to help with the transition.

I was numb as packed up my desk and said my goodbyes, but I knew that others would be worse off than me. I didn't have kids or a husband, so I didn't voice any complaints.

I was grateful they were paying us for the remaining two months, so I wouldn't have to touch my savings, but I hated the feeling that the situation brought about.

Just another reminder of how replaceable I am, I thought.

All around me, everyone who was being laid off was making plans to go out and have a farewell party at a local bar. Nobody directly invited me, and I didn't impose myself.

Invisible once more, I sighed.

I tried to linger a bit to say bye to Rob and Owen, even though I knew I'd see them on our days off,  but they were both in meetings about what would be expected of them with the changes.

They won’t forget about movie night or karaoke Saturdays, I tried to assure myself.

So, I carried my box of personal items out to my car and pulled out my phone. Once in the driver's seat, I heaved a sigh, tapped on my mom's contact, and dialed her cell. 

"Hey, baby! You on lunch?" My mom’s voice was distracted, which wasn’t unusual. Something banged in the background, and she shouted, "Honey! Be careful with that! It has the glasses in it!"

I restrained a groan, remembering that they were leaving that evening to go on a road trip in their new RV to visit our extended family in Mississippi and the Carolinas. My dad had been retired for six months, and they were ready to enjoy it.

"No, I’m not on lunch," I said, hard-pressed to tell her so I didn’t spoil her obvious good mood.

The most we did for vacation growing up was camping at local lakes or the annual hunting trips when my dad had worked enough overtime to get our license and the supplies to visit his uncle's property.

Still, if I didn't tell her, she'd be all fussy about it later when she found out.

"I just got laid off, but—" I sped on, fully aware she was about to start fussing. "They're paying us for the next two months and at the end, we're getting a severance check. So, I'm fine! I just thought you should know." 

"Oh, Gracie, I'm sorry! Do you have any idea what you're gonna do next?" she asked.

I could hear the string of lectures coming on about how this is why I should get in better shape, so I could find a stable man and not have to worry about bills when things like this happened.

Just like she did after the car dealership I was at for six months closed, I grimaced.

"Yeah, actually," I lied, but it beat the lecture I'd heard so often since my divorce. "I already posted my resume on a job site. Why don't I just let you get back to helping Dad? I'll be fine."

There was a pause on her end, and my head flopped back against the seat as I waited for the impending rant.

(Rule one with my mom, dear reader, was you didn't hang up until she said so. She'd just call back a dozen times until you answered, and then she'd complain and complain about how her kids never wanted to talk to her.)

"Well, while you're between jobs, you should get in some extra hours at the gym! You're always complaining you never have time, and now you do," she said, her voice edging with that hurried excitement it always held with the lecture.

There it is. Thankfully she couldn't see my face or the eyeroll.

(Rule two with my mom was to never let her see you roll your eyes. There are just some things that Southern parents won't tolerate in their presence. Eye rolling would get you a smack upside the back of the head, whether you're ten or thirty.)

She carried on as if oblivious to my silence.

"I've been seeing all these new photos and stuff on that instabook or whatever I joined. Thick girls are in, even for women in their thirties like you. You just need to lose your—"

"Mom, I'm not fat. I work out just fine at home, and I don't need a man. I need a job," I sighed and rubbed my face, not caring if I smeared my makeup. "I really need to go. I'm still in the parking lot."

"Fine, but don't say I don't try to make you better yourself," she said. "But, as payment for snapping at me, swing by our house tonight. Your dad has a package for some new lawn mower blades that was supposed to be delivered yesterday. It was delayed and is supposed to come in this afternoon."

(Yes, friends, I was frustrated with her, but it was that one sentence that started the chain of events. I couldn't have known that.)

"Nobody's gonna steal your package. You live in between two orange groves, and the delivery guy always leaves them on the back porch,” I sighed, trying not to sound too much like I was complaining.

"Just put it in the kitchen. Your brother's supposed to come mow on Sunday, so he'll need them," she said. 

I had to roll my eyes again, because there was no doubt that my brother, Nathaniel, would put the mowing off until right before my parents got back. While he was older by five years, he lacked all sense of responsibility.

I made a mental note to double-check that my mom had locked her more expensive pieces of jewelry in the gun safe.

His sticky fingers won’t be able to resist if they aren’t, I snorted.

"Dad's ready to go. I love you. Call you when we get to Aunt Opal's."

"Love you—" I tried to say, but the call ended. "Too." 

I grabbed my aux cord and charger and plugged my phone in.

It was barely noon, and I didn't particularly want to go home but there was nothing else to do. So, I turned my playlist on and tried to find some motivation from the music.

I left my box of personal items on the shelf in the garage, mostly because I didn't want to deal with putting it away, and headed inside.

Fred scurried from the edge of the sink down to his normal hidey-hole under the stove.

(Fred is—now don't judge me here reader—your average garden lizard.)

"Hey buddy," I said, knowing full well he didn't want to acknowledge me.

I had given up on trying to get him out of the house because the last three times I'd tried, he'd somehow gotten back in. He had free reign of the house, and I didn't have to worry about spiders and such.

Perfect arrangement, I mused.

"How's your day?" I asked. There was no answer except his rustle against the metal. "Tell me about it." I dropped my purse on the counter and sighed.

Normally I reveled in having time off, but my normal desire to read, watch whatever show I had recorded on DVR, or even bake was gone. So, I chose, instead, to drown my woes in a glass of sweet tea and a nice snack of cheese rolled up in ham as I perused online job postings in my pajamas. 

As usual, the selections were mostly for sales or call centers paying less than I needed to earn. There were a few decent jobs, but one caught my eye. Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office was hiring emergency dispatch operators, at about what I was making before.

The application took the better part of an hour, which left me with pretty much nothing to do after. So, I decided to take advantage of ladies' night at the local gun range. I needed practice, and Mondays meant ladies shot free.