Alternative

| Chapter Five

Joe uses his shoulders to open the doors leading into the harvesting section of Alt-Life. Early in the morning, the company is always busy. Employees move left and right as they try to accurately save and distribute data to the proper clients. Desks are lined up together in cubicles; miniature walls separate one computer from the other.

As I step inside the place that severed my life, I take in a deep breath. "Time to clock in," I whisper.

Joe laughs as he walks past me. Our joined desk is to the left of the entrance. On top of it are our coffees from the week, stacked in the corner like a tower of old caffeine. The cup at the top falls over when Joe drops his laptop bag on his side of the desk. Quietly cursing, he reaches down to pick it up.

I scratch the side of my head as I follow him, gently placing my bag beside his. "Maybe if you cleaned up after breakfasts it won't get this bad."

Joe places the cup at the top as if it belongs there. He taps it twice, smiles at it, and winks at me. "It's our glory tower," he says.

I click my tongue. "Glory tower?" With a confused stare, I drop down in my seat, never looking away from him. "Who's tower? Mine or yours?"

Joe joins me, sitting across from me. "Well," he pointed at the red cup on the bottom, "this is your java from Monday. And this blue one here," he points at the third cup in the tower, "this is from Wednesday. And—"

"All right, all right." With my hand against my temple, I have to laugh.

I know a few of the cups were mine. Morning coffee is something Joe and I do regularly. But I also ask that he throws them out by the end of our shift, or when we leave for a run.

Instead, Joe makes arts and crafts with our garbage.

"Okay, so," Joe pulls his laptop out of his bag and opens it, quickly pressing keys, "we need to hand in Angel Rogers' data stream before we can get started on the next mem-rip."

I bite the insides of my cheek. The USB containing the data from the night before is nestled safely in my pocket. I pat it just to be sure.

Joe lifts his gaze away from the screen just as it brightens. "Do you want to take it to Morris? Or do you want me to go in and talk to the man?"

Morris Jackson. Our Alt-Life supervisor. His office sits at the far end of our floor. Large open windows expose him to everyone willing to see.

I glance up and stare in his direction, noticing his door is open. From inside, I can hear smooth jazz; calming and energizing at the same time. Yet, as I look at his office, at his windows, and at him sitting at his desk with his phone pressed against his ear, I can't flow with the notes swimming our way.

Morris was the first person I called that night Emery's accident took her memories. At the time, he helped me, rushed to power on every computer to try and retrieve what the memory implant ripped away. But when he realized there was nothing he or anyone could do, he left me, abandoned me in my situation with nothing more than a, "The company will take care of it."

Alt-Life didn't. All they did was give me a home. And Morris kept me employed.

But none of this matters without my wife.

"Ray?" Joe raps his knuckles against the desk to pull my attention. When I look at him, he frowns, brows pressed together. "Ray, I can do it, it's cool. I always take them in for him, anyway."

My hand slides over the pocket of my jeans. "No, Joe." When was the last time I saw Morris face to face? "I think I can do it this time."

Joe watches as I push up from my seat. His hand pushes out, reaching for me. I look down at his fingers and see the sad expression on his face. "Joe, it's no biggie," I say with a smile. "It's just a file. It's not like I have to stay in there anyway."