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.
