The Fifth Scenario

The morning paper said what it always says every morning: blah blah someone died blah blah blah politician was revealed to be corrupt blah blah celebrity couple just filed a divorce and twenty other blahs that Andy reads before he declares himself to be truly awake. This was routine, along with the countless good days everyone he meets on the way to work wishes him.

By 10am he was at his desk with a cup of latte in hand. By 10:01am he was already wishing for the day to end. For seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year, this has been routine.

It has been routine for almost ten years now.

“Oh sweetheart I thought you’d never call,” said a delighted Mrs Langley who was very relieved to know that her only child remembered her birthday.

“Did you like the flowers, Mom?” Andy smiled, jotting down something on his notepad, “eleven white roses, just as how Dad did it.”

“Oh you,” Mrs Langley giggled like a teenage girl, “you’re even sweeter than Henry.”

“See you tonight,” he stuck the note on his computer monitor, “I’ll call again, maybe after lunch.”

7:30, he wrote on the sticky note, hoping it will help him not forget. “Now it’s time to get things done,” he muttered to himself. A pile of manuscripts sat on his oak desk, begging to be read. He picked up the first one and read the title: When time runs out.

“Catchy,” he whispered. Pages flutter by as he sinks deeper into the string of words. He didn’t notice the time fly by, but when he finally did, he was already an hour late for his promised call. Andy pushed the digits in.

Ring, ring, ring. His mom seemed to be busy. Ring, ring, ring. Maybe she’s in the garden? But no, it’s 2pm—too hot outside to tend her pansies. Ring, ring, ring. Maybe she’s in the kitchen? Ring, ring, ring. In the shower? Ring, ring, ring. Taking a nap? Ring, ring, ring. What could she be doing that she couldn’t pick up the phone?

Andy went back to the manuscript again. The yellowing pages seemed to crumble from his touch. Just how old exactly was this thing? He turned the pages more carefully. Andy read it voraciously, not daring to skim a single word. By 5pm he was more than halfway through it, and never before in his life had he been this deep into someone’s work, let alone someone else’s thoughts. It was incomparable to everything his eyes had set upon for the last decade. It was as good as the first three sentences have promised: Time is not infinite. In four out of five possible calculated scenarios, time is most likely to end in about 3.3 to 3.7 billion years. But in the fifth scenario, time could end before you finish this sentence.

He loved the chase, the flow, the concrete directness. It was as if the writer was talking to him and him only. It was during this point of realization that he went back to see who the writer was.

But there was no writer.

Andy flipped through the pages, forgetting how fragile they were. Surely, there has to be a name here somewhere. Finally, he dared to peek at the final leaves of the manuscript, tracing the sentences with his fingers.

“Craig,” he uttered into the receiver, “where’d you get this crusty manuscript you gave me this morning?”

“A crusty what?” Craig asked a little slower than his usual talking speed.

“The one without a writer,” Andy said anxiously, “the one on top. When time runs out?”

“When time what?” Craig asked much too slower now, “you’re talking too fast.”

“Stop it, Craig. You sound like a hungry stomach,” Andy yapped, “just tell me where you got the damn—"

“Aaaaannn—dddddyyyy?” Craig said.

Andy dropped everything and started to run. He ran as fast as he can. He knew it was pointless. His mom’s house was a good cab ride away, even without traffic. He had to run anyway, it was better than doing nothing at all.

The sun was starting to set; a somber orange dominated the sky. Andy did a bit of running during his college days, in fact, he ran to keep himself in school. Those days felt like centuries away now. He never regretted any of it and every time he looked back, he looked back with pride.

For the first time in his life he did not look both ways before crossing the street—he didn’t need to. He’s still very far away from where he wanted to be. His leather soles weren’t made for running and he even fell a few times. For the first time in his life he did not feel wind slapping his face as he ran. He knew he wouldn’t make it, but he ran. He might’ve skinned his knees but he didn’t mind. Nothing mattered now. The sun was a few seconds shy from setting, green sparks tore through the dying corona of light…and it stayed there.

Andy’s speed was finally crawling to a halt.

A piece of paper was suspended in mid-air, from that moment on it was in no danger of falling. The crumpled page only had seven words on it: You are now entering the fifth scenario.