I adjusted my blazer before stepping into the room they’d led me to for my interview. I hated office clothes, but that’s how jobs are won. Not with jeans and a T-shirt.
I wasn’t sure if they could see the cat hair still clinging to the black jacket, but I brushed at it anyway. Ineffectually.
A man stepped in. The kind that reminded me of Secret Service. Military-straight posture. Weight balanced like he expected to move. Buttons aligned with regulation precision. Regulation sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket instead of worn.
What was I getting myself into?
“Your application and résumé look great,” he said. “Your work history is appropriate. What can you tell us that isn’t on the paperwork?”
“I’m not interested in being right. I’m interested in doing my job correctly, noticing what isn’t being said, and being ready to stop what no one thinks will happen,” I said.
He nodded and made a note.
“How do you react under pressure?”
“Pressure? Define pressure. Are we talking about arresting someone who’s armed, or a bomb in a building with hostages below it and no bomb squad access because someone’s guarding the elevator with an automatic weapon?”
Silence held. He made another note.
“Tell me, Ms. Hale. Do you react well outside your comfort zone?”
“Sir, I work for a government agency. What’s a comfort zone?”
“If we decide to move forward with you, would relocation pose an issue for you?”
“I’m not attached to my living quarters,” I said.
Kyper would disagree.
The man made another note on his paper, then stood and held out his hand. I stood as well and took it, a polite shake of dismissal. He indicated the door and left the room. I followed, heading the opposite way.
I had almost reached security at the front door when someone said my name.
“Ms. Hale.”
I turned.
“Would you please come with me?”
She wore a black power suit and a haircut that suggested this wasn’t a request. She led me to another room with bright fluorescent lights and no windows. A silver metal table stood in the center, papers already arrayed on it, a pen that looked like it came straight out of a Faustian bargain waiting neatly on top.
“If you please, Ms. Hale, this is the contract for the job. Take as long as you like. It’s standard, really,” the woman said in bored, cultured tones.
I moved the pen aside and picked up the top packet. It was a non-disclosure agreement, stating that anything I learned as part of my job would not be shared with the world at large. There was language allowing law enforcement to perform their duties, but for the most part it was boilerplate. I signed it and moved on.
The second packet was vague but not threatening. It covered relocation, I-9 forms, tax documents, the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. I signed and set it aside.
The third packet was different. Dense. Very legal. Some terms I didn’t fully understand. Other sections repeated themselves later in slightly altered language.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The third packet?” she said. “Standard relocation and maintenance. You agree to take care of whatever property you’re assigned until you either purchase your own housing or leave the position. That sort of thing.” She glanced at her phone. “I can have my supervisor go over it with you if you like, but that could take a couple of days. And if you don’t sign today, they may decide to move forward with another candidate.” I signed, she picked up the papers before I had time to change my mind, and left the room.
Another person. Another power suit. Another room. My hand was nearly dislocated from all the shaking as I was greeted by several individuals. Coffee was offered. I thought I declined, but it arrived anyway. I ignored it.
Several voices spoke at once. I caught fragments. Remote relocation. Minimal communication at times. Think for yourself. Details closer to your start date.
By the time they let me leave, I was mentally exhausted, trying to keep up with everything they’d told me about the job. I couldn’t recall anything specific. Not even the location. I chalked it up to too many voices and drove home, parking outside my apartment.
I headed for the elevator, unbuttoning my blazer and brushing at its stubborn cat hair as I went.
I unlocked my front door and was greeted by a faintly disapproving mrow. Kyper. He hated long hours, long days, long anything that meant his human wasn’t home to serve him as was clearly his due.
I dropped my keys on the table by the door and walked toward the kitchen, already reaching for his food bowl. Dinner first. For both of us.
He jumped onto the counter like he belonged there, then jumped back down when I glanced at him. He knew better, and I was too tired to battle. He got the hint.
I checked his water and went to the fridge to get my own dinner and a bottle of water. We ate in companionable silence, him at his bowl and me at the small dining table tucked into the corner of the room. He never needed much chatter. He just wanted his needs met.
I moved to the living room and sat on the sofa. He followed, his stripes nearly blending with the rug’s greys and browns. A mackerel tabby. Smart, striped, and king of the apartment. A house tiger in his element.
He jumped onto the sofa beside me and stretched out. I stroked his fur for a moment, then sighed.
“How do you feel about moving, Kyper?” I asked.
He raised his head and rolled onto his side.
Silence was usually disagreement. The alternative meant he wanted to be petted.
“Well, we’re moving soon. I’m not sure where, but somewhere it might be difficult to get to a grocery store quickly, so we may want to stock up on your favorite food,” I said.
That earned a quiet mew. He always answered to the word food, even when it wasn’t being offered. He jumped down and swatted half-heartedly at a ball made of silvervine.
“Yes, buddy. We’ll pack those too,” I said, absently checking my phone.
An email had come in. It suggested I pack only what I needed and that I would be allowed a single carry-on bag for the flight. I starred it so I wouldn’t lose it later and went to my room to see what I couldn’t live without for a few weeks.
I pulled out my suitcase and Kyper’s carrier, then sat down on the bed.
Did I really just sign myself up to be relocated?
It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time I had no idea where I was being sent. I lay back on the bed, and the cat decided it was bedtime. He jumped up beside me and sprawled out like he owned the place—which, honestly, he probably did. He just didn’t pay the rent.
I lay there and petted him, and eventually fell asleep with my hand resting against his side, him purring like a tiny motor.
Note from the author: I plan to continue these. Eventually I will bundle them up and turn them into a book but for now, enjoy. Curie approves of Kyper by the way.
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