The dream began with the sound of shears.

Click. Click.

The sound was rhythmic. It was wet. It echoed in a void that had no walls.

Margaret saw the hands.

They were gloved.

The gloves were white.

They moved with precision.

They moved with care.

Then she woke.

The ceiling was white.

The light was gray.

It was seven a.m.

She lay in the narrow bed.

Her body felt heavy.

Her body felt old.

She sat up.

The room was small.

It was in Chicago.

It was in the West Loop.

The air was thin.

The air was cold.

She looked at her hands.

They were shaking.

The skin was loose.

The veins were blue.

She stood.

Her knees cracked.

She walked to the window.

The city was waking.

The skyscrapers were steel.

The skyscrapers were glass.

They reflected the sky.

The sky was empty.

She was fifty-four.

She had been here for five years.

She had left for the work.

She had left for the promise.

The promise was gone.

The work was done.

The work was bad.

She needed to go to the clinic.

The clinic was nearby.

It was in a glass tower.

It was in the shadow of the museum.

She put on her coat.

The coat was gray.

The coat was thin.

She put on her shoes.

The shoes were flat.

The shoes were worn.

She walked out.

The wind hit her face.

The wind was sharp.

The wind was cold.

She walked fast.

Her breath was white.

Her breath was short.

She reached the building.

The lobby was bright.

The lobby was sterile.

The floor was marble.

The floor was cold.

She walked to the desk.

The desk was long.

The desk was glass.

The woman behind the desk looked up.

The woman had dark eyes.

The woman had a red scarf.

The woman was Sarah.

Sarah was her assistant.

Sarah was her friend.

Sarah was her confidant.

Sarah was her traitor.

"Margaret," Sarah said.

Her voice was soft.

Her voice was smooth.

"You look tired."

"I am tired," Margaret said.

Her voice was dry.

Her voice was low.

"I need to see Dr. Evans."

Sarah smiled.

The smile was small.

The smile was tight.

"Dr. Evans is busy."

"Busy with whom?"

"With a priority patient."

"What does that mean?"

It meant you are not important.

It meant you are not special.

It meant you are replaceable.

Sarah looked down.

Sarah looked at the screen.

The screen was blue.

The screen was bright.

"I can give you a slot," Sarah said.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Next week."

"I cannot wait."

"I know."

"I need to see him now."

"I cannot do that."

"Why?"

"Because of the protocol."

The word was heavy.

The word was hard.

The word was a wall.

"What protocol?"

"New policy."

"Who made the policy?"

"Management."

"Who is in management?"

"I do not know."

"I know who is in management."

Sarah did not answer.

Sarah looked at her watch.

The watch was silver.

The watch was round.

"You should wait," Sarah said.

"I will wait."

Margaret turned.

Margaret walked away.

She walked to the elevator.

The elevator was metal.

The elevator was cold.

She pressed the button.

The button was red.

The button was small.

The doors opened.

The cabin was empty.

The cabin was dark.

The doors closed.

The elevator rose.

The numbers changed.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The elevator stopped.

The doors opened.

The hallway was white.

The hallway was long.

The doors were black.

The doors were numbered.

She walked to the end.

The door was forty.

The door was closed.

She knocked.

No one answered.

She knocked again.

No one answered.

She pushed the door.

The door was open.

The room was empty.

The chair was empty.

The desk was clear.

The computer was off.

The light was off.

The room was silent.

The room was dead.

She felt a chill.

The chill was deep.

The chill was cold.

She turned around.

Sarah was there.

Sarah stood in the doorway.

Sarah held a folder.

The folder was white.

The folder was thick.

"Dr. Evans is gone," Sarah said.

"Gone where?"

"Gone home."

"Is he sick?"

"He is not sick."

"Then why is he gone?"

"He is not here."

"He is in the building."

"He is not in this room."

"Where is he?"

"I do not know."

"You know."

Sarah looked at her.

The look was cold.

The look was hard.

The look was final.

"You are making a scene," Sarah said.

"I am asking a question."

"You are wasting my time."

"I am wasting my life."

The words hung in the air.

The words were sharp.

The words were true.

Sarah looked down.

Sarah looked at the floor.

The floor was white.

The floor was clean.

"You should go," Sarah said.

"I will not go."

"You must go."

"I will stay."

"You are breaking the rules."

"What rules?"

"Security rules."

"There are no security rules."

"There are always rules."

Sarah stepped forward.

The step was small.

The step was firm.

She held out the folder.

The folder was open.

The pages were white.

The pages were full.

"Take it," Sarah said.

"What is it?"

"Your file."

"My file?"

"Your evaluation."

"What kind of evaluation?"

"Performance review."

"I have not had a review."

"You are overdue."

"I am not overdue."

"You are late."

Sarah handed her the folder.

The hand was steady.

The hand was cold.

Margaret took the folder.

The paper was crisp.

The paper was new.

She looked at the top.

The top was stamped.

The stamp was red.

The stamp was clear.

The stamp said: TERMINATED.

The letters were bold.

The letters were black.

The letters were final.

She looked at Sarah.

Sarah looked at her.

Sarah did not blink.

Sarah did not flinch.

Sarah did not apologize.

Sarah simply stood there.

The betrayal was silent.

The betrayal was clean.

The betrayal was total.

Margaret opened the folder.

She read the first line.

The line was short.

The line was simple.

The line was cruel.

It said: Inefficiency.

It said: Age.

It said: Cost.

It said: Risk.

The words were clinical.

The words were technical.

The words were cold.

They did not lie.

They did not hide.

They just cut.

They cut deep.

They cut clean.

Margaret closed the folder.

Her hands were still.

Her mind was clear.

Her heart was still.

She looked at Sarah.

Sarah looked away.

Sarah turned.

Sarah walked out.

The doors closed.

The doors locked.

Margaret was alone.

The room was silent.

The room was empty.

The room was white.

She sat in the chair.

The chair was leather.

The chair was soft.

The chair was cold.

She held the folder.

The folder was heavy.

The folder was real.

The folder was true.

She did not cry.

She did not shout.

She did not rage.

She sat.

She waited.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The sound was steady.

The sound was constant.

The sound was relentless.

Time was passing.

Time was eating.

Time was winning.

She thought of the shears.

She thought of the gloves.

She thought of the cut.

The cut was not in the dream.

The cut was in the paper.

The cut was in the code.

The cut was in the law.

She stood up.

Her legs were strong.

Her back was straight.

She walked to the window.

The city was below.

The cars were moving.

The people were moving.

The world was moving.

It did not care.

It did not see.

It did not stop.

Margaret looked at her reflection.

The face was old.

The face was tired.

The face was hard.

The face was free.

She had fought the clock.

She had fought the age.

She had fought the system.

She had lost.

But she had won.

She had won the truth.

She had won the clarity.

She had won the end.

The end was not a tragedy.

The end was a release.

The end was a breath.

The end was a door.

She opened the door.

She walked out.

The hallway was long.

The hallway was bright.

The air was cool.

The air was fresh.

She walked to the elevator.

The elevator came.

The doors opened.

She stepped in.

The doors closed.

The elevator went down.

One.

Zero.

The doors opened.

The lobby was bright.

The sun was high.

The sun was warm.

The sun was kind.

She walked out.

The street was wide.

The street was empty.

The wind was gentle.

The wind was soft.

She walked into the city.

She walked into the light.

She walked into the unknown.

She was alone.

She was free.

She was alive.

The nightmare was over.

The dream was done.

The shears were gone.

The gloves were gone.

The cut was gone.

Only the scar remained.

And the scar was hers.

And the scar was strong.

And the scar was real.

And the scar was free.