After flunking his permit test, Dennis took the MBTA home with his head hung low and his legs tapping weakly against the ground. He didn’t smile once.

From the moment he placed his CharlieCard in the slot and the gates opened, Dennis was completely indifferent to his surroundings. A pickpocket could have come along, picked his pocket, and run off, and Dennis would have been none the wiser.

I failed. That’s the truth.

Of course, it was not just that he had failed. He’d also seen things that shouldn’t have been in the simulation, things that made him wonder if his whole life might be a simulation as well. And he’d convinced his instructor that he was losing his marbles.

No, Dennis would not be back next week. Probably not the week after. In fact, odds were good he’d never be able to look Floyd McCord in the eye again. There were some things that you never socially recovered from, and this was one of them.

The railcar’s door closed with a wheeze, then the train started running. Dennis sat in one of the seats marked off for disabled and/or elderly passengers. Yes, it might have been morally iffy, but no disabled person was there asking for the seat, so Dennis didn’t need to give it up.

Then again, if I hallucinated Pokémon during that test, who’s to say I’m not disabled in a different way? I have a sick mind, not a sick body.

At one stop, a man walking a dog got on the train. Dennis didn’t think much of this at first - perhaps the dog was a service animal, which was the only way the dog should be allowed on the metro. Precisely why the man needed the service animal was none of Dennis’ business, so he wouldn’t ask.

That is, until the dog suddenly started shimmering right before his eyes. Suddenly, the animal seemed even more sentient than before - like a Pokémon.”

“What the - ?” Dennis exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

Passengers left and right glared at Dennis, and the young man rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry” he said. “I just got a bit carried away.”

“Service animals exist, you know” another man, clearly a police officer judging by his uniform, muttered. “You need to live in the real world.”

“Right” Dennis stated. “Sorry. It’s just…”.

What was he supposed to say? It’s just that the service animal turned into a Lillipup or some other Pokémon species? If he said that, and stuck to his story, he was likely to be thrown in the loony bin.

“If you continue to cause a disturbance,” the conductor barked from the controls, “you will be ejected from this train!”

Dennis kept his mouth shut for the rest of the ride, even as the service dog continued to look so much like a Lillipup. He disembarked from the train a stop early so that he wouldn’t have to deal with his own wavering sanity any longer.

He found himself in Dorchester, about a mile from his apartment. This neighborhood was a little louder than most in Boston, since some of its vehicle owners couldn’t afford mufflers. Additionally, trash was present on far more sidewalks than you’d find in Back Bay or the Seaport District.

It might not have been perfect, but Dorchester was still home. That did not, however, mean that Dennis could let his wits wander. Violent crime was a rarity in Boston, but Dennis still had his hand on his wallet the whole time. It wasn’t the sort of neighborhood where people walked their dogs outdoors (or even owned dogs to begin with), so no further Lillipup were present.

Dennis arrived at his apartment building after a while, swiftly holding his residential ID to the door. The lock disengaged, and he stepped inside the air conditioning.

The landlord did not comment on Dennis’ dreary demeanor. Quite frankly, he didn’t need to - landlords here saw it all. It was no secret that most people in Dorchester were down on their luck, after all.

So he made his way to the third-floor apartment with his name on it and unlocked the door. Dennis then collapsed onto his ratty old sofa and tugged on his hair.

I failed. I’m a failure. Whatever comes next, I’ll have to deal with it myself.

After rolling around on the couch as though tossing and turning through a fever dream, Dennis decided he’d order some food. He wasn’t particularly hungry - in fact, he probably couldn’t eat a bite right now. But it would at least be something to do.

So Dennis opened his computer, navigated to the DoorDash website, and selected his favorite Thai restaurant. He ordered a veritable feast - mango fried rice with crispy chicken, chicken satay, chive dumplings, and a stir fry with rice noodles. He would eat like someone getting over a breakup, not that he’d ever had a breakup to get over.

The restaurant was surprisingly busy for this time of day; his food would take about forty minutes to arrive. Oh, isn’t that just great! More time to think!

Instead of ruminating about today’s failures, Dennis decided to watch some YouTube videos about how to fly a bushplane. Maybe they would help, maybe they wouldn’t, but it was surely more productive than beating himself to a pulp.

He didn’t bother watching takeoff videos; he focused strictly on those videos that talked about how to land. The aviation YouTubers always emphasized that their content was no substitute for professional instruction, but Dennis didn’t think much about that disclaimer. As long as he didn’t parachute out of his plane claiming engine failure, he would be fine.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

And yet he’d failed today.

In the middle of a video, probably about half an hour after he’d ordered the takeout and ten minutes before it was due to arrive, the doorbell rang.

Still, Dennis hesitated. Dorchester was hardly a warzone, but it wasn’t the sort of neighborhood where you just answered your doorbell without thinking about it. There was of course a tiny peephole, but how were you supposed to see anything through the damn thing?

It could be the food.

But Dennis doubted it. To the extent that the estimated delivery time misjudged the actual delivery time, it always took longer to actually receive the food. It was probably someone else - maybe the landlord telling him he needed to take better care of his living space.

Taking a deep breath, Dennis opened the door. And sure enough, it was not a DoorDash delivery driver. The man on the threshold, however, did breathe as though he’d just been dashing.

“Who the hell are you?” Dennis wondered aloud.

The visitor, a bald man with a small white goatee and gray shirt, frowned. “Is that any way to treat a guest, Dennis Summers ?”

“How the fuck do you know my name?”

“Dennis! Be nice, okay?”

“Well, excuse me. I had a pretty rough day, so I think I can be forgiven for sulking.”

The bald man narrowed his eyes. Speaking in an accent reminding him of Texas, he announced the following: “If you don’t take my advice, your day may go from bad to worse.”

“Is that a threat?” Dennis wondered aloud. “Because if it is, I’m calling the cops!”

“You wouldn’t” the man muttered. “I come in peace, but not everyone does. You may not trust me, but would you trust your enemies?”

Dennis sighed. He’d clearly lost the argument, so he had to pray that the man didn’t have a gun or knife. Even if he called the cops, they weren’t going to show up for far too long.

“Fine” Dennis stated curtly. “You can come in.”

The bald man sat in the recliner that, for some reason, had been christened the “ex-husband chair” long ago. That was the only other piece of furniture in the living room besides the sofa.

“So let’s cut to the chase,” Dennis said. “My food’s arriving in ten minutes. What do you want?”

“I will get through this quickly” the man promised. “My name is Clint Cargile, and I am a CIA agent. In case you were wondering, I’m originally from Tennessee.”

“I wasn’t wondering that, but okay. How do I know you’re from the CIA?”

Clint sighed, then wheezed a bit. “I have the badge to back me up. But more importantly, I’ve got some news for you, and you aren’t going to like it.”

He’s from the CIA. He says he has a badge, even if he didn’t show it to me. They’ve probably got some reason for questioning me. But it’s not like I’ve done anything to warrant that! At least, not that I know of. What if they think I’ve got information about some terrorist organization, and I’m withholding it from them for whatever reason?

Dennis’ mind ran a mile a second thinking about all the reasons Clint might have showed up. It wasn’t long before Clint continued.

“There is good news and bad news, I guess” the bald man admitted. “Which would you like to hear first?”

“Good” Dennis said automatically. Perhaps it would lessen the sting of the bad news that came after it.

“The good news is that we’re offering you protection.”

Dennis raised an eyebrow. “Protection? Like, witness protection?”

Clint shrugged. “You could call it that, I suppose.”

“But I’d have to change my name for that. I’d have to start a new life and be pretty much invisible, wouldn’t I?”

Clint raised an eyebrow disapprovingly, as though trying to suggest that those demands were nothing to be upset about. That it wasn’t such a hassle to get a fake ID and start all over.

“Actually, you’d basically hide in plain sight if you’re in witness protection” Clint clarified. “But yes, you would get a fake ID for that.”

Dennis shook his head. “That’s a non-starter. I’m not scared enough for that.”

“You aren’t scared enough now. But after I tell you the bad news, I’ll bet five to one that you will be.”

Dennis shivered, and his stomach churned. The Thai takeout binge that was a few minutes away from his apartment complex seemed wholly unappealing now - why the hell did I order it?

“Okay, I’ll bite” he sighed. “What’s the bad news?”

“This gang called the Lobster Mobsters…they’re run by a man named Patrick Lawrence. They operate all over Boston, as well as other parts of New England.”

What an odd name for a gang. Sounds pretty cartoonish, like a fever dream. Like seeing Pokémon where they don’t belong.

“Okay” Dennis muttered. “And that matters for me because…”.

“Look,” Clint replied severely, “Patrick Lawrence and his buddies are the sort of people who’d kill you for nothing but the clothes on your back. Or worse, just to watch you die. In fact, they aren’t people. They’re animals.”

Dennis cringed at hearing the word animals used in that context. It made Clint sound like a dangerous person. Which, given that he was a CIA agent, was no doubt true if you happened to get on his bad side. He could make your life a living hell if given probable cause to.

After a small grunt from the much younger man, Clint sighed. “Look, Dennis. These people…they’re after you.”

“I figured as much, given the way you’re talking about them.”

“So that brings us to my offer. I can grant you protection for as long as necessary to evade the Lobster Mobsters. Once the threat posed by the gang is neutralized, you can go back to your previous life - this .”

“Or?” Dennis asked.

“Or you can roll the dice. But as soon as you’re found - for it’s a matter of when , not if, your enemies will see the fear in your eyes, and they will revel in it. That’s what the Lobster Mobsters do, after all. That’s who they are. The choice is yours, Mr. Summers.”

“No” Dennis muttered.

Clint stared at Dennis as though the latter were from another planet. The CIA agent must have figured that his would-be client was a brazen idiot. To stare down the proverbial barrel of a gun, yet have the nerve not to play his “Get Out Of Jail Free” card…it certainly went against the conventional wisdom of what one should do in the situation.

“Are you sure?” Clint muttered. “You may not have another chance - they could find you any day, you realize?”

“I’m sure” Dennis affirmed. In reality, when someone told you about an imminent threat to your life, you had to take it seriously, even if no evidence was provided to back up that threat. That’s why Dennis said those words quickly, before he could think too long about what he was committing to.

“Very well,” Clint stated. “If you change your mind, and it isn’t too late, I’ll write down my phone number. Do you have any paper?”

After Dennis provided Clint with those objects, he scribbled his number there: CLINT CARGILE (CIA): 555-766-9522. “That’s where you contact me if you have any questions. But I’ll give you one last chance today to accept my offer. Will you?”

“No” Dennis said, before he could talk himself out of it.

Clint frowned. “Well, you cannot say I didn’t warn you. But I will say…you might regret that choice pretty soon.”

Then, without any further words, Clint walked through the door to the stairwell. He was replaced on the threshold by a very bewildered-looking DoorDash employee.