The bell rings. It is a sharp sound. It cuts the air. You are standing in the hall. The floor is cold. You feel the cold through your shoes. Your father is gone. The house is quiet. The silence is heavy. It presses on your chest. You breathe in. You breathe out. The air is stale. It smells of dust and old paper. You look at your hands. They are dirty. There is a smear of red on your thumb. You do not wipe it away. You let it dry. It becomes brown. It becomes part of the skin. You are a warrior. You fight every day. You fight for a place. You fight for a wage. You fight for food. The battle is not with swords. It is with words. It is with forms. It is with stamps. You are tired. Your bones ache. The pain is a low hum. It is always there. You walk to the office. The door is closed. You knock. No one answers. You knock again. The wood is hard. It does not yield. You wait. The minutes stretch. They are long. They are thin. You count them. One. Two. Three. The door opens. A hand pushes it. It is a pale hand. The fingers are long. The nails are short. The hand belongs to Mr. Gable. He looks at you. His eyes are flat. They are like stones. He does not smile. He does not frown. He simply looks. You step inside. The room is small. The light is dim. It comes from a single bulb. It buzzes. The sound is annoying. It gets into your head. Mr. Gable sits behind his desk. The desk is wood. It is dark. It looks like a tomb. He has a pen in his hand. The pen is silver. It catches the light. He does not write. He just holds it. He looks at you again. You stand still. Your feet hurt. Your back hurts. Everything hurts. You are waiting. You are waiting for the verdict. You are waiting for the end.

"Sit down," he says. His voice is low. It is soft. It is like a whisper. You sit. The chair is hard. It has no cushion. It digs into your thighs. You do not move. You do not shift. You are a statue. You are stone. Mr. Gable clears his throat. The sound is dry. It is like a leaf crunching. He looks at the paper on his desk. The paper is white. It is bright. It hurts your eyes. He reads it. His lips move. They move slowly. They do not make a sound. You watch them. You watch every twitch. You watch every pause. He stops. He looks up. He looks at you. He tilts his head. It is a small movement. It is precise. It is cold.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asks. He does not wait for an answer. He does not want an answer. He knows the answer. You know the answer. It is in the air. It is in the dust. It is in the red on your thumb. You nod. You nod slowly. Your neck is stiff. It cracks. The sound is loud. Mr. Gable blinks. He does not look away. He keeps looking at you. His eyes are still flat. They are still like stones.

"You have been fighting," he says. His voice is neutral. It has no heat. It has no cold. It is just air. "You have been fighting for a long time."

"Yes," you say. Your voice is rough. It is scraped. It is raw. You have not spoken in a while. The words are hard to get out. They are like stones in your throat. You swallow. You try to speak again. You do not speak. You just breathe.

"Stop fighting," he says.

You look at him. You do not understand. You look at him again. You want to ask why. You want to ask how. You want to ask what. But you do not ask. You are a warrior. Warriors do not ask. Warriors do. They act. They strike. They hold. You hold your breath. You hold your body. You hold your mind. You are still. The room is still. The light buzzes. The bulb flickers. It dims. It brightens. It dims again. The shadows move. They stretch. They reach for you. They touch your feet. They climb your legs. They wrap around your waist. They are cold. They are heavy. They are alive.

"I have made a decision," Mr. Gable says. He places the pen on the desk. The pen rolls. It stops. It is still. He looks at the pen. He does not look at you. He looks at the wall. The wall is bare. It is white. It is empty. There is nothing on it. There is nothing to see. There is nothing to hide.

"What decision?" you ask. Your voice is quiet. It is barely a sound. It is a ghost. It is a whisper. You do not care. You want to hear it. You want to know. You want to fight. You want to win. You want to survive. You are so tired. You are so hungry. You are so alone. You want someone to see you. You want someone to know. You want to be real.

"The decision is this," he says. He turns back. He looks at you. His eyes are bright now. They are not flat. They are wet. They are full. They are overflowing. "You are fired."

The words hang in the air. They do not move. They do not fall. They are solid. They are heavy. They crush you. You do not move. You do not breathe. You do not blink. You are frozen. You are locked. You are trapped. The world stops. Time stops. Your heart stops. You feel nothing. You feel everything. It is too much. It is too little. It is wrong. It is right. It is both. You are confused. You are lost. You are broken.

"Go," he says.

You do not move. You are sitting. You are still. The chair is hard. The floor is cold. The air is stale. The light is dim. The shadow is long. You look at your hands. The red is still there. The red is dry. The red is brown. The red is part of you. You look at Mr. Gable. He is waiting. He is watching. He is judging. He is condemning. He is saving. You do not understand. You do not care. You stand up. Your legs shake. Your knees buckle. You catch yourself. You lean on the desk. The wood is cold. The wood is hard. The wood is real. You look at Mr. Gable one last time. He does not look back. He looks at the wall. He looks at the pen. He looks at the paper. He is gone. You are alone. You walk out. The door closes. The lock clicks. The sound is final. The sound is absolute. The sound is death. You are in the hall. The hall is empty. The hall is dark. The hall is cold. You walk to the stairs. The stairs are narrow. The stairs are steep. The stairs are old. The wood creaks. The wood groans. The wood complains. You walk down. You walk slowly. You walk carefully. You walk with purpose. You walk with rage. You walk with sorrow. You walk with love. You love him. You love your father. You love him even though he is gone. You love him because he is gone. You love him because he was a warrior. You love him because he fought. You love him because he lost. You love him because he did not stop. You will not stop. You will fight. You will win. You will survive. You will be real. You will be seen. You will be known. You will be whole. You step out the door. The air is cold. The air is sharp. The air is fresh. You breathe in. You breathe out. You are alive. You are here. You are now. You are free. You are bound. You are free. You are bound. You are free.