1

There was a comfortable but unremarkable colonial-style house on a tree-lined plot of land, on a quiet street, at the edge of a quiet suburb.

The lawn was green without being lush, trimmed often enough that it never drew a comment or complaint from neighbors.  The trees and shrubs near the house, too, were trimmed and shaped in a way that suggested routine maintenance and not dramatic upheaval.  The siding had been painted within the last few years, the color chosen from a narrow band of safe neutrals that aged well and never looked out of place.  The house had been built to last, but not to impress.  Its proportions were familiar, its angles expected, its presence reassuring precisely because it offered nothing surprising.

Inside, the air was cool and still, conditioned just enough to take the edge off the early summer’s warmth.  The faint smell of clean fabric and coffee hung in the living room, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just present.  Mid-afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows, softened by blinds that had been adjusted once years ago and then left alone.  A few dust motes drifted lazily in the light, visible only when the sun caught them just right.

A man was sitting on a couch in the sunken living room, his weight settled into the cushions in a way that suggested he had been there for some time.  He was average in every way that mattered and some that didn’t: average height, average build, average posture.  Middle-aged, but not dramatically so—his hair graying a little at the temples, his face carrying the faint lines of habitual expressions rather than stress or anger.  He wore jeans and a soft T-shirt, the sort that had been washed enough times to lose any stiffness, and socks instead of shoes, his feet resting flat on the carpet.  One arm lay draped along the back of the couch, the other resting loosely in his lap.

He wasn’t doing anything in particular. There was nothing he was waiting for, nothing that needed to happen next.  The day had settled into that quiet, unremarkable middle space where time passed without requiring attention.  His breathing was slow and even. Every so often he shifted his weight slightly, more out of habit than discomfort.

The television was on, a cable sports network.  He was watching baseball, or something like it.  The screen showed a game, but not a live one.  There was no sense of shared time, no awareness that events were unfolding elsewhere in the same moment.  It was a highlight reel, edited down to a tight, efficient two hours—a condensation with the pauses, delays, and dull stretches removed.  Pitch after pitch, hit after hit, the game reduced to its useful components.  The announcers spoke with practiced enthusiasm, their voices polished and steady, untroubled by uncertainty.

He looked at the screen, only half-interested. His eyes followed the ball when it mattered and drifted when it didn’t.  He had already seen some of these plays before—he knew that, even if he couldn’t remember exactly when.  The familiarity didn’t bother him.  Baseball was good for that; it offered repetition without demand, variation within strict limits.  The rules rarely changed. The outcomes did, but they didn’t require participation.

A runner slid into second.  The shortstop scooped the ball cleanly and pivoted, throwing to first in one smooth motion.  The announcer’s voice lifted as the double play completed, a neat, efficient ending to the inning.  The man on the couch watched it happen, registered it, felt the small, automatic satisfaction of closure.

The broadcast cut to a commercial.

The sound changed, the rhythm breaking into something brighter and louder.  He barely noticed.  He let the noise wash over him, his attention drifting further now that nothing on the screen required it.  The light in the room hadn’t changed.  The house was quiet in the way it always was at that hour, insulated from the street and from urgency.  Empty except for him, his belongings, and the things that made a house a home—even for one unremarkable person.

Then his phone rang.

It was ringtone-like, distinct but not especially noteworthy.  A hypnotic, simplistic melody of sorts, just a few notes repeating themselves.

He sat up quickly and grabbed the phone off the table.  He recognized the number.  He knew what it was going to be before he saw it, but he confirmed it anyway.

He answered, but didn’t raise the phone to his ear. He waited a few seconds—no sound from the phone—then pressed the end-call button.

He dialed another, different number from memory.  As he did so, he stood from the couch and went to the small study off of the living room.  There, as the phone rang, he searched the pencil drawer.  He found the small printed card, slightly larger than a business card, the one with two columns of numbers on it in black and red.

The line rang a few more times, then clicked as it was answered.  A generic, forgettable, banal melody of four notes played.  Not like the ringtone, but equally bland.  A jingle, something that plays at the end of a commercial.

A recorded voice followed.  A man’s, neutral, accent-less, friendly but devoid of emotion— an automated announcement at an airport, or the kind used for corporate customer service lines.

“Welcome to Bright Hill,” the recorded voice said. “Enter your subscriber number now.”

The man scanned the card in his hand, counting down the column of numbers on the left. He stopped his thumb on the sixth one and dialed the numbers verbatim into the phone.

A click from the other end, then the recorded voice again.  “Enter your password now.”

The man’s thumb traced across to the other column of numbers, and he dialed that one into the phone, then pressed the pound key.

A few soft clicks, a pause, more clicks.

An automated voice came from the other end.  Primitive-sounding by modern standards, it was mechanical and slightly stilted, the cadence unmistakably machine-like.

“This message is for personnel in the following operational tiers.  Adam Three.  Boy Two…Boy Three.  Charles One…Charles Two…Charles Three.  David Three…David Four.”

There was a brief pause before the voice continued.

“If you are not in one of the preceding operational tiers, hang up now and contact your first line supervisor.”