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.
