DEATH. I’M A MEMBER of the walking dead, a zombie going through the motions. My head is full of cotton and my mouth tastes like the aftermath of a bushfire. It was a mental battle just to drag myself into work this morning, but it’s far too soon into my new job to take a sick day.
At this point, I might have welcomed a “conversation” reminding me I’m on probation. Then I could gracefully bow out of the job by suggesting it wasn’t working on both sides. I’ve been here less than a week. I could leave it off my resume entirely. Who would know? Then I wouldn’t need a reference, and I could pretend this whole nightmare had never happened.
The photograph of Annie Seramoph—the one from the TV—pops into my mind. I can still hear the desperation in her father’s voice and his whispered warnings. S
