The bus stops. It stops because the driver says so. Or maybe because the road ends. You don’t know. You step off onto the cracked asphalt of Millhaven. The air smells of wet iron and old rain. You are here to work. You are here to fix things.

The town is small. It sits in a bowl of hills. The sky is a low gray lid. You carry your bag. It is heavy. Inside is a wrench. Inside is a hammer. Inside is the truth you left behind.

You walk to the center. The Center is a building. It is tall. It is white. It has no windows on the ground floor. There is a door. It is metal. It is cold.

You knock. No one answers. You knock again. The sound is flat. Dead.

A door opens above. A man leans out. He wears a gray suit. His face is smooth. Like clay that has not yet dried.

You are late, he says. His voice is soft. It is like static.

I am on time, you say.

Time is a construct, he says. You are in the queue.

I have no queue, you say.

Everyone has a queue.

You look at him. You look at the door. The door is locked. The lock is red. It pulses. A slow, red heartbeat.

Let me in, you say.

Not yet.

You wait. The rain starts. It falls in thin needles. It pricks your skin. You do not move. You hold your bag tighter. The wrench digs into your palm. You welcome the pain. It is real.

The man goes back inside. The door slams.

You sit on the curb. The concrete is damp. It soaks through your trousers. You think of your mother. She liked to prune the roses. She said the cut was a kindness. She said the plant needed the wound to grow.

You did not believe her then.

You do not believe her now.

The man comes back down. He has a clipboard. He writes. He does not look at you.

Name, he says.

You do not speak.

Name, he repeats.

You are the wrench, you say.

He stops writing. He looks at you. His eyes are pale. Like water in winter.

That is not a name.

It is what I am.

It is what you do.

There is a difference, you say.

Is there?

He hands you a paper. It is white. It is blank.

Write it, he says.

You take the pen. It is black. You write. You write your name. You cross it out. You write the word. You cross that out too.

You cannot lie here, he says.

I am not lying.

You are hiding.

I am holding, you say.

He takes the paper. He tears it. He throws the pieces into the rain. They float. Like snow.

Come inside, he says.

You stand. Your legs are stiff. You walk up the steps. The door opens. It is warm inside. It smells of dust and ozone.

You follow him. The hallway is long. It stretches out. It does not end. There are doors on both sides. They are all closed. They are all identical.

Which one? you ask.

The right one, he says.

You walk. Your shoes squeak on the tile. The floor is yellow. It is stained.

You stop at a door. It is marked with a red circle.

This is it, he says.

You turn to him. You look into his face. You see the fear. It is behind the clay mask. It is a small, black bird, beating its wings.

Why? you ask.

Because you are broken, he says.

I am not broken.

You are a tool. Tools break.

Tools are fixed.

No. Tools are replaced.

You laugh. It is a dry sound. Like leaves skittering.

You go in.

The room is small. There is a chair. There is a table. There is a light. The light is bright. It burns.

You sit. The chair is hard. It is cold.

The man stands behind you. He holds a mirror. It is silver. It is cold.

Look, he says.

You look.

You see yourself. But it is not you. It is a shape. It is a void. It is a hole in the world.

This is your fault, he says.

I did nothing.

You exist. That is the fault.

You look at the void. You look at the mirror. You see the red circle on the wall. It pulses. It matches your heartbeat.

You reach for the wrench in your bag. You take it out. It is heavy. It is solid. It is yours.

You hold it up.

The man steps back. He touches the door. He will not enter.

You are the authority here, he says.

I am the subordinate, you say.

No. You are the one who holds the weight.

You stand up. The room tilts. The light flickers.

You walk to the mirror. You strike it.

The glass does not break. It shatters.

You strike it again.

The glass shatters into dust.

The dust falls. It settles on the floor. It is red.

You look at the man. He is gone. The door is open. The hallway is empty.

You walk out. The hallway is gone. You are in the street. The rain has stopped. The sky is clear. It is a deep, black blue.

You are alone.

You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are clean.

You look at the building. It is gone. There is only a field. The grass is tall. It sways in the wind.

You walk away. You walk to the edge of town. There is a river. It is wide. It is dark.

You stand on the bank. The water moves. It is slow. It is deep.

You think of the rose. You think of the cut.

You take off your shoes. You roll up your trousers. You step into the water.

It is cold. It bites. You gasp.

You walk deeper. The water rises to your knees. To your waist.

You hold the wrench. It is heavy in the current.

You walk to the center. The water is at your chest. You cannot breathe.

You open your mouth. The water rushes in.

You do not fight it.

You let it fill you.

You are the root. You are the water. You are the dark.

The current pulls you under.

The surface is still. The sky is still. The town is still.

You are gone.

You are there.

You are the silence after the knock.

You are the red circle.

You are the void that holds the shape.

You are the truth that cannot be written.

You are the name that is not a name.

You are the end of the queue.

You are the beginning of the fix.

The water is quiet. The rain is gone. The sun is rising. It is pale. It is weak.

The field is green. The grass is wet.

You are not there.

You are everywhere.

You are the thing that holds the world together.

You are the thing that breaks it.

You are the thing that remains.

The end.