When Katya interviewed for the job at the cloning project station, they gave her a tour of the facility.

“Attention. This is a lockdown.” Over the loudspeaker, the principal sounds like she’s chewing something she didn’t have time to swallow. “Take proper action.”

Flashlights clicking.

“I can’t believe the power went out, right before the big game.”

“Who would have thought?”

“Well, what are we going to do now?”

My wife and I were sick in November. Historically a healthy pair, we’d unexpectedly fallen victim to the pandemic all over the news, an abstraction that we could now experience as reality from the comfort of our home. 

No matter what the disembodied chose at the end of the incarnate line, they regretted it upon return.

On my first day, they put me on novellas. A lot of the greats got their start here, the manager said. After a few months’ experience, you’ll work your way down. 

Invisible art, missing people, killing your darlings, clip show coherence. From the mundane to the life-changing: something’s missing. Something, whether fingers, parents, scent, love, or words—somehow, somewhere, they’re gone. Lost. Taken. Dead. Missing.