THE reason Audrey never changed her wrong-name name tags was that she liked it. It helped her get through the day. Audrey wasn't getting cursed out because a customer asked for scalding hot coffee, and she didn't inform her it was hot--Shirley was.

And Audrey wasn't being asked where the dish soap was in front of the dish soap aisle wasn't Audrey, it was Tanya. She hated that she had to live in a rancid delusion, clinging to a nametag with some random 30-year-old's name who quit, who did something with their life, pretending she wasn't there--pretending she was someone different.

More than anything, she hated how much his card burned in her pocket every time she had one of these deadening interactions. The temptation was strong. She was smart, she knew she was, and with his...help? She could have it. She really could. That cycle of misery, poverty, humiliation, and hopelessness, could at least lose one of its wheels. It was too good to be true though. That roguish, cocksure, perfectly straight, and white grin. That jet black hair always smoothed back perfectly coiffed, not a hair out of place. The only mark on him, the only...blemish was the peek of tattoos that sometimes peeked out from under his shirt. How far up did they go? She took her lips between her teeth anxiously, her back against her mattress, legs up, the card coming into focus, as she cocked her head and blinked, trying to clear the blur.

Alexander Remington. Even his stupid name was perfect and rich, completely assholish. He wanted something. But what? Maybe he was trying to sell her off somewhere, human traffic her or something. 

College. A guaranteed job. 

A debt that she might not be able to pay.

Technically belonging to a rich douchebag.

Was this a metaphorical second location? The first part of the plan was the original debt, and this, this was the second part, the part where she gets datelined. 

No...probably not. No one cared enough for her to end up on Dateline. In her mind's eye, Audrey could see the small column, at the very back of the newspaper, the one no one read anymore.

Poor bitch found dead. Meh. No one really cares.

She sighed, sitting up, looking around her small loft apartment. Audrey looked at her closet, at the space behind her clothes. There was an empty whiteboard with one thing at the time. Dreams.

She'd had no time for dreaming. The sandman didn't often visit her. Instead, for the few hours, she was granted sleep it was pitch black. Nothing but darkness. A pit of despair just like her life. Somehow, in order to keep going, Audrey had put a timer on her happiness. When she was done, she could live, is what she kept repeating. But her bones felt weary, and her chest felt tight, and no matter how much she slept she could not feel rested.

Alexander was right. There was no way she had it in her for another two years. She'd never been very strong, born weak and frail, with nothing but a sharp mind and a broken father, and a must-do attitude. Now, every health issue she'd had from birth was exacerbated, and she'd no way to go to the doctor. It was better not to. So many diagnoses, medicines, visits she couldn't afford. There was no need to know, blissful ignorance was her motto. But as she closed her eyes, she decided that she could be blissfully ignorant, but not so stupid that she could take an offer like that, with a clear, oh so clear condition. And the fact he wouldn't tell her meant it was terrible.

And everything would've worked out that way, probably, just that way, if she'd woken up for work the next day. She never gave her jobs each others numbers, fearing they'd conspire against her, if she lied for one and took a day off.

With no one else's number to put down, she put the only other person she could think of.

Alexander's phone rang. He stared at it with a frown. He never gave his direct line, except to family and--

He picked it up. "Speak."

"Hello is this Greasy Spoon? We're calling because your employee Audrey Willams didn't come into work today. It's not like her, and she's not answering her phone. Have you heard from her?"

Alexander frowned, and pulled his drawer open, staring at the contract, looking over the address from her last payment. 

"I...haven't. But I'll check in on her." He hung up, grabbing her coat. He inputted her apartment into the phone and drove to her. He got a sickening feeling his digestive issues were going to worsen. It was a long drive from his side of town to hers, and the disparity was glaring.

Finally, he'd gotten to a decrypt building, wincing at the way it seemed to sway in the wind. 

"Very not safe," he winced, his stomach beginning to ache. He entered the building, walking up the creaking stairs, which seemed to buckle under his weight. His stomach pulled itself into a knot. Finally, after 5 flights, he huffed, looking at the apartment budding, the A rusted, and crooked. He lifted his hand, trying to fix it. It fell back crooked defiantly making him wince once more. Gathering himself, he knocked.

Once. Twice. Three times. It was dead silent. He doubted she could sleep through how loudly he was knocking, music blasting from two floors down, sending muffled words through the walls, the dog incessantly barking, the couple arguing, the baby crying. 

"Audrey. If you don't open up I am going to add a 50-dollar inconvenience fee to your debt," He called. After a moment, when the door didn't open, he knew something was wrong.

He kicked it, his eyes widening in terror as it easily crumbled. "Very not safe!" He exclaimed in horror, walking around it, stepping into her house. He looked around. The kitchen was a square, and the bathroom didn't look like you could turn around in it. Instead of a TV, her phone was in a plastic bag, hanging up on the wall with a push pin.

"I don't think I'm ever gonna shit again," he muttered to himself. 

Audrey was slumped onto her bed. He ventured closer.

"Audrey! Wake up!" He yelled.

She didn't. Inching closer, he pressed his ear against her heart. Barely beating. His eyes widened. He pulled out his phone, calling 911 in a hurry.

Picking her up, he began his descent down the stairs, not wanting the paramedics to waste time. "Please hurry. I think she's dying."