My Name is Human [hiatus]

Chapter 1

She checks the text message on her phone yet again. It's still hard to believe. As she sits in row 27 of a redeye flight from Minneapolis to Washington, D.C., the seven words drive out her breath just as they did earlier that morning.

Page 4. A mouse in the sink.

Her stomach reaches for her knees, and it's not from turbulence. To anyone else, those seven words would mean nothing. To her, they're enough to uproot her entire life and shake the contents out onto the floor. What's left is sitting in a laptop bag at her feet. No time to pack. Grab a computer and run.

"Something to drink?" a flight attendant says, coming up on row 27 with a cart of refreshments.

"I'm fine, thank you," she says. Nothing goes into her body until she knows more about what's happening.

The flight attendant moves on. Good. She prefers the privacy. All of row 27 is hers.

She returns to the seven-word text, making the words dance as her thumb slides along the screen. The sender is listed as "God." In any other situation, "God" would be a cheesy handle from a spammer or a lame attempt at a hookup from one of the losers she dated in college a few years ago. Seven words make all the difference.

Page 4. A mouse in the sink.

Despite never saving that name, "God" somehow found its way onto her list of contacts. There's no phone number attached to it. "God" is there as if it's always been there.

"Joan," however, is new, and she knows how that name came into being. It's her pseudonym as of this morning. It's short and easy to type. Memorable, but not too memorable. Generic, but not too generic. The airplane ticket required she register with her legal name, but no one else needs to know that. Anonymity is her final layer of protection in a day mangled by intrusion.

Joan scrolls through the other text messages from God. The two conducted an entire conversation over text, a privilege so many say they would love to have, yet so few are rushing to make happen. Death as a conversation piece.

Which is why Joan literally pinched herself earlier that morning to make sure she hadn't died at her keyboard. Sure, her clients sometimes made her wish she were dead. Hiring out software development brings out the ignorant and arrogant. That's the blessing and the curse for running a sole proprietorship out of the house Joan rented in the Twin Cities. She could make as much or as little money as she needed, but there was nowhere to lob the shit uphill. Her gratis work for non-profits alleviated some of the agitation.

Until earlier this morning. God said there would be no more entrepreneurship for Joan. The commandment isn't in any Bible, though. The Word is on her phone's text history, transcribed not with the help of prophets but with autocorrect.

Page 4. A mouse in the sink.

When that peculiar text initially came through, Joan must've paused too long. The texts kept coming.

Page 1. A mouse in the house!

Page 2. What do you think?

Page 3. A mouse in the kitchen.

Page 4. A mouse in the sink.

Joan knew the lines well, and had ever since age 13, half a lifetime ago. They're from the book her baby brother held in his hands when she found his dead body. The loose cords from the blinds were at fault, having wrapped around his tender neck. That's what her parents told her at the time. A lie. A lie to save their remaining child.

She'd left him alone in the nursery room despite her parents' warnings. It only took two minutes and seven seconds, the same time it took Joan to come back with a warm bottle of formula. Tunnel vision only allowed Joan to see page four in the book in her brother's hands. Thank God.