The room was exactly as he had left it, a museum of his teenage mediocrity. A faded poster of Green Day hung crookedly over the bed. The air smelled of dust and old paper.

Arlis sat at the desk, the glow of the CRT monitor illuminating his face in harsh blue light. The computer whirred and groaned, the modem screeching its digital handshake as it connected to the internet.

Welcome to AOL.

He ignored the cheerful voice and opened the browser. His fingers flew across the keyboard, typing a URL he hadn't needed in a lifetime. State Personnel Board - Rules and Regulations.

The connection was agonizingly slow. The progress bar inched forward, pixel by pixel. Arlis tapped his finger on the desk, a rapid, rhythmic sound. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Finally, the PDF loaded. He scrolled down. Page 104.

Supplemental Candidate Protocol.

Clause 4: In the event of two or more withdrawals within the primary selection tier prior to the interview phase, the selection committee is mandated to activate the reserve pool...

In his previous life, this clause had been triggered. But nobody knew. The HR department at City Hall had quietly slipped the slot to Candidate Number Six-Kyler Craft's cousin. It was nepotism, buried under bureaucracy.

Not this time.

Arlis opened his email client. He began to type. He didn't write like a student asking for a favor. He wrote like a lawyer threatening a lawsuit.

Subject: Inquiry Regarding Supplemental Candidate Activation - Protocol 104

To whom it may concern:

Regarding the candidacy status of Jacob Miller and Sarah Jenkins... respectfully request confirmation of adherence to State Personnel Board Regulation 104... failure to activate the reserve pool would constitute a procedural violation...

He didn't hit send. It was 2:00 AM on a Saturday. Sending it now would look desperate. He set the email to schedule for Monday, 8:00 AM sharp. It would be the first thing the clerk saw when she opened her inbox with her morning coffee.

Downstairs, the floorboards creaked. His parents were still awake, whispering. They were worried he was having a breakdown.

Arlis pushed his chair back and knelt by the bed. He dragged out a dusty cardboard box. Inside was his suit. It was polyester, charcoal gray, bought at a discount store for his high school graduation. It was wrinkled and sad.

He carried it to the ironing board set up in the hallway. He plugged in the iron, waiting for the hiss of steam.

He laid the jacket flat. As he pressed the hot metal against the fabric, watching the wrinkles vanish under the heat, he felt like he was ironing out the creases of his own soul. Every pass of the iron was a correction. Every hiss of steam was a purge of his past weakness.

The next morning, Arlis walked into the kitchen wearing the suit. It wasn't tailored, but it was clean, and he wore it with a posture that made it look expensive.

Frank was watching the small TV on the counter. "Crime rate in the East District is up again," the newscaster said.

"It's a deployment issue, not budget," Arlis said, pouring himself coffee. "The new Mayor is going to restructure the Third Precinct within six months."

Frank froze, the coffee pot hovering over his mug. "How do you know that?"

Arlis paused. "Just a guess, Dad. Can I borrow twenty bucks? I need to go to the library to print some documents."

Frank dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills-his tips from the entire previous day. He handed them over without hesitation. Arlis took the money, the texture of the worn paper feeling heavy in his hand. This is the last time, he promised himself.

The library was cool and quiet. Arlis printed the protocol and his updated resume. As he walked out into the bright sunlight, a shadow fell over him.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Dumped," a voice sneered.

Jody Hebert. Hailee's best friend. She was leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette, looking him up and down with disdain.

"Here to cry over a book? Or looking for the classifieds?" she asked, blowing smoke in his direction.

Arlis stopped. In his past life, Jody had been the poison in Hailee's ear, constantly whispering that Arlis wasn't good enough.

He rolled up the documents in his hand. He stepped closer to her, ignoring the smoke.

"Jody," he said calmly. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about your internship at the County Clerk's office. I hear they're doing budget cuts next week. Last in, first out."

Jody's smirk vanished. The cigarette hung loosely from her lips. That rumor hadn't gone public yet. It was her deepest fear.

"What... what are you talking about?" she stammered.

Arlis didn't answer. He walked past her, his shoes clicking on the pavement, heading toward the post office. He didn't look back.

Three days of silence. The waiting was a physical weight, pressing down on the back of Arlis's neck.

He was wiping down tables at the diner, moving mechanically. Every time the phone rang, his heart slammed against his ribs.

The door chime jingled. Arlis looked up and felt his jaw clench.

Kyler Craft walked in. He wasn't alone. He had two friends with him, guys in boat shoes and pastel shirts who looked like they'd never worked a day in their lives.

Kyler spotted Arlis instantly. A smirk spread across his face, oily and satisfied. He walked to the largest table in the center of the room.

One of his friends looked around with disgust. "Dude, you really dragged us to this grease pit?" he muttered.

Kyler shot him a look, his voice low but carrying. "Just watch. This is called putting someone in their place."

"Hey, service!" Kyler shouted, snapping his fingers. "We need a menu. And make sure the cook washes his hands."

Frank threw his spatula down, his face turning purple. Arlis intercepted him. "I got this, Dad."

He grabbed a notepad and walked to the table. Kyler looked up at him, eyes gleaming with malice.

"So, Arlis. Heard you're still playing pretend with the City Hall thing. Don't you think you should focus on... this?" He gestured vaguely at the greasy diner. "It's more your speed."

Arlis stared at him. "What can I get you, Kyler?"

"I'll take a burger," Kyler said. "And some advice. Give up. My dad knows people. You aren't getting in."

Arlis wrote nothing down. He lowered the pad. "Kyler, if I were you, I'd be less concerned with my career and more concerned with the audit coming for the Regulatory Commission. Your father's expense reports are... interesting."

Kyler's smile died. His hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist, bunching the tablecloth. "What did you say?"

Rrrrring.

The phone on the counter screamed. It was loud, shrill, and demanding.

Martha picked it up. She listened for a second, her face draining of color. She looked at Arlis, her eyes wide with shock.

"Arlis," she said, her voice trembling. "It's for you. It's the State Personnel Board."

The silence in the diner was sudden and absolute. Even the sizzling of the grill seemed to stop. Kyler froze, his head snapping toward the counter.

Arlis dropped the notepad on Kyler's table. He walked to the phone, his steps measured. He picked up the receiver.

"This is Arlis Zimmerman."

"Mr. Zimmerman," a dry, bureaucratic voice said. "Regarding your inquiry into Protocol 104. We have reviewed the candidate status. Two withdrawals have been confirmed."

Arlis held his breath.

"You have been moved into the active interview pool. Your interview is scheduled for Friday at 2:00 PM at the Capitol."

Arlis let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for forty years. "Thank you. I'll be there."

He hung up the phone. He turned to face the room.

"Is it true?" Martha whispered, clutching her apron.

"It's true," Arlis said. "I got the interview."

A cheer erupted from the regulars at the counter. Old Mr. Henderson clapped his hands. Frank let out a bark of laughter that sounded like a sob.

Kyler stood up. His face was blotchy. "It's a mistake," he spat. "You're just a filler candidate. The interview is a shark tank. They're going to eat you alive."

"We'll see," Arlis said.

Kyler shoved his chair back and stormed out, his friends trailing behind him like confused puppies. He didn't order food.

That night, Arlis stood in front of his bedroom mirror. He wasn't looking at himself. He was looking at Commissioner Reynolds.

"Tell me about your weakness," he whispered to his reflection.

He answered himself, adjusting his tie, changing his posture. He practiced the hand gestures-open palms, steeple fingers. He rehearsed the cadence of a man who knows the answers before the questions are asked.

Martha stood outside the door, listening. She heard her son speaking in a voice she didn't recognize-confident, articulate, filled with words like "fiscal responsibility" and "urban revitalization." It scared her. It made her proud.

Arlis pulled the cheap suit from the hanger. He hung it on the outside of the closet door, forcing himself to look at it. It was his armor. It was his weapon.

Thursday morning was dark. The sun hadn't crested the horizon yet, leaving the world in shades of gray and blue.

Arlis zipped his duffel bag. It was light. He didn't own much.

Frank met him at the bottom of the stairs. He held out a white envelope. "Take it," Frank said roughly. "It's not much. Get a hotel room with a lock on the door. Don't sleep at the station."

Arlis took the envelope. It was thin. Maybe two hundred dollars. "Thanks, Dad."

"I can drive you," Frank offered, jiggling his keys.

"No," Arlis said. "The truck needs new tires. I can't risk you breaking down on the highway. The bus is fine."

He walked into the kitchen. Martha handed him a brown paper bag. "Turkey and cheese," she said. "I cut the crusts off."

Arlis smiled, a genuine, small smile. "Thanks, Mom."

The Greyhound station was a concrete slab on the edge of town. The bus was a behemoth of steel and exhaust. Arlis boarded, finding a window seat near the back. The air inside was stale, smelling of recirculated air conditioning and old cigarettes.

A young woman sat across the aisle, a baby screaming in her arms. She looked exhausted, on the verge of tears. Arlis reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic dinosaur-a toy from the diner's kids' meal stash. He held it out.

The baby stopped crying, grabbing the toy with chubby fingers. The mother exhaled, mouthing a thank you.

The bus lurched forward. The town of his childhood-the gas station, the high school, Hailee's house-slid past the window and disappeared. Arlis felt a physical severance, like a cord being cut.

He closed his eyes. He visualized the interview room. Commissioner Reynolds.

Reynolds hates theory, Arlis thought. He hates academic jargon. He wants numbers. He wants grit.

Most candidates would walk in there quoting textbooks. Arlis was going to walk in there quoting the potholes on 5th Street.

The bus stopped at a rest area three hours later. Arlis stepped out to stretch his legs. Near the vending machines, a group of three college students stood in a circle. They wore blazers with university crests.

"Did you hear?" one of them said, laughing. "They opened a reserve slot. Some nobody from the boonies got in."

"Probably just to fill a diversity quota or something," another sneered. "They'll be out in five minutes."

Arlis unwrapped his sandwich. He leaned against the brick wall, chewing slowly. He was invisible to them. He was just a guy in jeans eating a crustless sandwich.

Good, he thought. Underestimate me.

He climbed back on the bus. His phone vibrated. He checked it. Hailee.

Kyler says you're going to embarrass yourself. If you turn back now, I can ask my uncle to get you a job in sanitation. It pays okay.

Arlis didn't feel anger. He felt nothing. He opened the settings menu. Block Contact.

He pressed the button. The severance was complete.

Six hours later, the skyline of the capital rose from the plains. Skyscrapers of glass and steel reflected the afternoon sun. To Arlis, they looked like teeth.

He got off the bus. The noise of the city hit him-sirens, honking, the hum of humanity. He walked two blocks to a motel with a flickering neon sign. The Starlight Inn.

He dropped his bag in the room. It smelled of mildew. He didn't care.

He washed his face and walked out. He needed to see the battlefield.

City Hall was a massive limestone building with towering pillars and wide steps. It was designed to make you feel small. Arlis stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up.

He didn't feel small. He felt hungry.

He sat on the bottom step, watching the people come and go. Men in suits. Women in power heels. They walked with purpose, clutching briefcases full of secrets.

Arlis narrowed his eyes. I belong up there, he told himself. And tomorrow, I'm going to prove it.