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forty-eight hours.

Chapter 5.

    Martin was happy to go back to work. After being cooped up in his apartment all weekend, thinking complicated thoughts and wrangling computer code, it was nice to get out and be around people. He drove to work, his car a sunny little island of calm in the middle of the swollen river of misery that was the morning commute.
    Martin was done worrying about the philosophical implications of his discovery. He had finally come to see it like this: some say the universe was created by God, and we are powerless pawns to his whim. Some say the universe was created by random chance, and we are powerless specks in a vast, indifferent ocean. Martin could prove that the world was created by a computer program, which made no difference, because who created the program? God? Random chance? He hadn’t answered the question, he had just pushed it back one step. The difference was that people weren’t powerless pawns or powerless specks. People were powerless subroutines, or at least everyone was but Martin! Powerlessness didn’t seem so bad when you only saw it in other people.
    Martin had the easy air of a man with a plan. He would continue to live as he always had, but with no money problems, and the ability to go wherever he wanted on his days off. He would live a life billionaires would envy. Total freedom and total anonymity, and the best part was, he didn’t have to change anything. All he had to do was keep a low profile, and there was no profile lower than the one he already had. He would keep his current job, keep his current car, and keep his current apartment. All of those things could change in time, but for now the way forward was to stop all progress.
    As he walked into the cubicle farm, it looked different to him. A week ago he saw it as a fluorescent-lighted, beige-walled abattoir for the human spirit where he had to spend most of his time. Now he saw it as a fluorescent-lighted, beige-walled abattoir for the human spirit where he chose to spend most of his time. It was like a corporate drone fantasy camp.
    He sat smiling at his desk, humming as he took papers from his inbox, entered the pertinent information from the form into the proper field of the database, then deposited the form in his outbox.
    He went to the break room. A woman he had known for two years without learning her last name was staring at the water cooler. Her first name was Becky. She had a pale complexion and limp, dishwater blond hair that somehow perfectly matched her faded, threadbare business suit . In its way, it is a cohesive look, Martin thought.
    “How are you?” Martin asked.
    “Bored,” she replied.
    Martin said, “I know, right? Everything about this place is breathtakingly dull, isn’t it?”
    “YES!” She looked around to see if anyone else was listening, but they were alone. “Have you ever found yourself hoping, just for a second, that you’ll get into a car accident?”
    “TOTALLY!” Martin said, louder than he’d intended. “Because it would be interesting!”
    “Yeah, nothing where anybody got seriously hurt. I don’t want that,” she explained.
    “No. Just hurt enough that you get to go to the Emergency Room.”
    “Hmmmm. Maybe ride in an ambulance and have two beefy guys in uniforms help me. A broken arm is the sweet spot. You need immediate attention, and you get out of work for a couple of weeks, but you’re not debilitated or anything,” She trailed off, lost in her fantasy.
    They stood in silence for a minute.
    “Well,” she said, “I have to go back to work.”
    “I guess you do,” Martin said. “They don’t pay us to stand around talking.”
    She smiled. She had a great smile. Martin had never seen it before. She said, “They certainly don’t pay us enough to justify doing our jobs,” as she left the break room.
    And she’s a manager , Martin thought. If I work really hard, I might get promoted to her job someday.
    At noon, as everyone else was going to lunch,