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.

The tension in the waiting room was palpable, a physical pressure that made it hard to breathe. An administrative assistant walked in carrying a clear plastic box.

"We will now draw for interview order," she announced.

The candidates lined up. One by one, they dipped their hands in.

"Number Twelve!" one guy cheered.

"Number Eight," another groaned.

Kyler walked up, his confidence restored. He reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and grinned.

"Number Five," he announced loudly. "Prime time."

He smirked at Arlis. "Top of the morning. While the judges are fresh."

Arlis stepped up. The box was nearly empty. He reached deep into the corner and pulled out a crumpled slip.

35.

A murmur of sympathy went through the room. Candidate 36, who had pulled 34, looked like he was about to faint. "It's the death slot," he whimpered. "4:30 PM. They'll be exhausted. They'll hate us."

Kyler laughed as he walked past Arlis. "Even God hates you, Zimmerman. Have fun talking to a wall. They'll be asleep by the time you get in."

Arlis sat down. He looked at the number. 35.

He didn't feel despair. He felt a thrill of victory.

He knew something Kyler didn't. He knew Commissioner Reynolds was diabetic. He knew that every day at 4:00 PM, Reynolds' blood sugar crashed, making him irritable and nasty. But at 4:15 PM, his assistant would bring him a dark chocolate bar and a coffee.

By 4:30 PM, the sugar would hit. The caffeine would kick in. Reynolds would be awake, energized, and-crucially-bored out of his mind by thirty-four cookie-cutter candidates reciting the same answers.

He would be desperate for something different.

Arlis pulled a book from his bag. Municipal Infrastructure Maintenance: A Guide. He opened it and began to read.

Hours dragged by. Candidates went in pale and came out sweating. Kyler emerged at 11:00 AM, looking triumphant. "Crushed it," he told Hailee, who was waiting in the hall. "They loved me."

Arlis ignored them. At lunch, he ate half a protein bar. He needed to stay sharp, not sluggish. A heavy meal would be a mistake.

The afternoon wore on. The sun shifted across the floor. The room emptied. Finally, it was just Arlis and the shaking boy next to him.

Candidate 34 went in. Ten minutes later, he came out looking like he'd been slapped.

"Number 35. Arlis Zimmerman," the assistant called.

Arlis closed his book. He stood up. He buttoned his cheap jacket. He didn't rush. He took a deep breath, visualizing the layout of the room.

He walked to the heavy oak door. He pushed it open.

The blast of air conditioning hit him. The smell of fresh coffee was strong.

Five commissioners sat behind a long table. They looked wrecked. Ties loosened, eyes glazed.

But in the center, Reynolds was wiping chocolate from the corner of his mouth. He was taking a sip from a steaming mug.

Perfect timing.

Arlis didn't bow. He didn't rush to the chair. He stood by it, waiting for Reynolds to swallow.

Reynolds looked up, surprised by the pause. He saw a young man standing perfectly still, waiting for permission.

"Sit down, Mr. Zimmerman," Reynolds grunted.

Arlis sat. He kept his back straight, not touching the backrest. He folded his hands on the table.

Reynolds flipped open a file. He sighed. "You were twelfth on the exam. You're a reserve. Tell me, Mr. Zimmerman, why should we waste these last ten minutes on you?"

It was a slap in the face. A test.

Arlis didn't flinch. He looked Reynolds in the eye.