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.

The lobby of City Hall was a cavern of marble and echoes. It was cold, the air conditioning set to a temperature that suggested power and efficiency.

Arlis arrived an hour early. His suit was pressed, his shoes shined with a kit he'd bought at a drugstore. He stood near a pillar, watching the other candidates arrive.

They looked like clones. Navy blue suits, expensive watches, haircuts that cost more than Arlis's monthly rent. The air smelled of expensive cologne and fear.

Arlis walked to the sign-in desk. The woman behind the counter looked harried, buried under a stack of files.

"Good morning," Arlis said softly. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the world today."

The woman looked up, startled. Candidates usually barked names at her. Her face softened. "You have no idea, honey. Name?"

"Zimmerman. Arlis."

"Good luck, Mr. Zimmerman," she said, marking his name. Her tone was warm.

A commotion at the entrance drew everyone's attention. The heavy glass doors swung open.

Hailee walked in. She was clinging to Kyler's arm like a trophy. She wasn't a candidate, but she was there to mark her territory. Kyler wore an Armani suit that fit him like a second skin. He looked like a prince.

He scanned the room and locked eyes with Arlis.

"Look," Kyler announced, his voice booming. "The waiter actually showed up."

A ripple of laughter went through the group of candidates. Arlis didn't flinch. He stood perfectly still.

Hailee looked at Arlis. Her eyes flicked over his cheap suit, the slightly frayed cuffs. "Arlis," she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper of pity. "Just go home. Don't do this to yourself."

"Hailee," Arlis said, his voice even. "This is a government building, not a sorority mixer. Lower your voice."

Kyler stepped forward, towering over Arlis. "Listen, pal. You know who got me this interview? The Deputy Mayor. Who sent you? The fry cook?"

Arlis looked Kyler in the eye. He didn't back down. He leaned in slightly.

"If I were you, Kyler, I wouldn't be shouting about nepotism in the lobby," Arlis said quietly. He nodded toward the far wall. "See those guys with the cameras? That's the Capital Gazette investigative team. They're looking for a quote on the corruption scandal."

Kyler's head whipped around. Sure enough, three men with press badges were standing near the elevators, talking to a security guard.

Kyler's face went pale. The color drained from his cheeks so fast it looked like a magic trick. He clamped his mouth shut, taking a half-step back.

Hailee looked confused. "Kyler? What's wrong?"

"Shut up," Kyler hissed at her.

Arlis didn't smile. He just turned his back on them and walked toward the elevators. The doors opened, and he stepped inside. As the doors slid shut, he saw Kyler standing there, sweating in his Armani suit.

Upstairs, the waiting room was silent. Arlis found a seat in the corner. Next to him sat a young man who was vibrating with nerves. Candidate 36.

"I'm going to throw up," the boy whispered.

"Breathe," Arlis said without opening his eyes. "They don't want robots. They want problem solvers."

The boy looked at him, grateful.

The door opened. A hush fell over the room. Commissioner Reynolds walked in. He was a large man, imposing, with a face carved from granite. He walked through the room, inspecting the candidates like livestock.

Everyone stood up, straightening ties. Arlis stood slowly. His eyes went straight to the floor.

Reynolds' shoes. Black oxfords. But along the sole, a faint rim of reddish-brown mud.

Red clay, Arlis thought. The East District construction site. He was there this morning.

Arlis looked up. Reynolds caught his eye. For a second, there was a spark of curiosity in the Commissioner's gaze. Then he turned and marched into the interview room.

The game was on.