I miss Anthony. I miss the dirt, the hair, and the scattered bits of Martha dragged around the cemetery.

  The phone rings; the chorus of “MMMBop” by Hanson blares out of the device, demanding it be answered lest my ears bleed.

  “Immortality-Corp, how can I breathe life into your day?”

  “Kill me,” the voice cries out in anguish. “Please, please unbind me from the contract. I... I can pay you.”

  I sighed. They never read their contracts. I held the receiver away from my ear. I stuck to the script I had been provided for handling complaints.

  “Sir, I'm required to inform you that, per Section 4, Subsection B, all contracts are... final.”

  I heard the faint chime of a Melancholy Alert through the receiver, followed by a sob.

  This was the fourth call this morning. I straightened the fluorescent pencils on my desk. My white, opaline desk—sans chocolate.

  “Good morning, Keith. I hope you are having a joyous day. Do you have any mail for me?”

  I looked up at the nauseating form of Jothin looming over my desk. I wasn't sure why I hated Jothin so much—hate is so messy—but I did. From his oily, greased-back black hair to his pseudo-formal attire that radiated “I am neat, but also cool; notice me,” every part of him felt like an affront. He stood there, staring, as his too-strong cologne wafted over. He smelled like a cheap sports car.

  I immediately wanted to punch his smiling face and then file Form 18-D: Inter-Departmental Physical Incident Report. Florence wouldn’t put on this revolting, joyous air. What sort of useful filing clerk had only two arms?

  “Go away, Jothin.” I summoned every ounce of contempt I could, spitting the name out with the same condemnation I would a misfiled injunction.

  “Delightful,” Jothin replied, his smile never faltering. “Remember, we have celebratory tea at 8:00 a.m. sharp and communal positive employee affirmation from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. daily.”

  He dropped some “welcome” envelopes on my desk, as well as two packs of cheap company-brand pens. They were yellow with You are our sunshine printed on the side in pink cursive.

  “Affirmations are mandatory, and you are expected to positively affirm at least four colleagues this week. I trust you’ve been logging your daily moments of sparkle?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I considered stapling my log to his forehead. That would certainly qualify as a sparkly moment.

  He caught my mood and smiled even harder. “Keith,” he exclaimed, putting his arm around my chair. I felt like I was there—trapped in a low-budget cockpit. “I think we are going to be the very best of colleagues.”

  I stood up abruptly. His smile didn't falter. Stapling forms to employees would not be a good look in my first week. I needed to walk.

  I left my small corner of brightly colored cubicles, crossed the cavernous central hub—with its glass elevators and four-story drop—and headed to the cafeteria. I wondered if the large railings were to stop people from jumping, or to stop employees from throwing their colleagues over. I imagined Jothin soaring.

  “You’re the new guy, huh? My name’s Seymour.” I jumped.

  A large red crustacean was beaming at me from the water cooler, pointing excitedly at his name tag. It was handwritten in bold, squiggly letters.

  “Wait a second,” he quipped, already rummaging in his bag. “New people are always a moment of sparkle, and you seem really nice!” He extracted a pen, a small paper star, glue, and a bottle of glitter.

  “There!” He stuck the still-wet star onto my chest with a gooey slap. “It’s your time to shine!”

  Marketh, why hast thou forsaken me?

  Seymour beamed, tiny ecstatic bubbles forming at his mouth. I realized he was literally foaming with happiness. The feelers atop his broad red head swayed in rhythm.

  I was trapped, I realized, and my heart plummeted.

  MELANCHOLY ALERT! MELANCHOLY ALERT!

  A golden alarm blared from the ceiling. A hatch popped open above me, releasing a spray of heart-shaped balloons and rainbow confetti.

  “Immortality-Corp cares about the well-being of our employees,” the voice intoned. “Level 3 Cheer Response initiated for... Keith Flannery.”

  Doors slid open on all sides of me. A squad of ghouls in cheerleader uniforms marched in. They looked fairly normal—their skin just had a grey hue, and their feet dragged a little. They began to chant:

  H-A-P-P-Y, we’ve got joy, now you try, Come on Keith, don’t you cry, You can’t leave, and you can’t die.

  The performance was quite impressive, complete with high kicks, a trampoline, and a small ghoul pyramid. Seymour was clapping his claws and swaying his feelers in time with the chant. “Isn’t this great? You’re getting a Level 3 Cheer Response! That’s the good kind!”

  My vision doubled. I had visited the hells—all eleven of them. But this... this was so much worse. My heart started to stampede as panic set in.

  The golden voice paused, contemplative. Measuring me.

  “Elevated heart rate detected. Assessing: Result: Joy instilled. Individual Productivity Increased by: 30%. Team Productivity Increased by: 8%. Entering result in Wins document for review. KPI met. Disengaging.”

  The balloons slowed and the confetti settled. The ghouls froze mid-pose and slowly filed out, their pom-poms drooping like dead flowers. One looked especially disappointed.

  Seymour continued to bubble merrily. “See? That’s the Immortality-Corp difference.” He started to rummage in his bag again, still mumbling, “P-P-Y, we’ve got joy, now you try...”

  Wax crayons and drawing paper emerged.

  “Well... uh, Seymour, was it? A pleasure to meet you, but I must be off.”

  “Bye, Keith!” he waved, his claw enthusiastically gyrating.

  I smiled and backed away slowly, aiming for the corridor, only for a pair of spotless red shoes to draw me up short. They were polished to a mirror sheen that would pass a Form 17-G footwear inspection.

  Would this day not end?