It only takes my brush getting snagged on a tangle three times for me to realise it’s going to be one of those days.

One of those days where the universe conspires against me.

Well, that or I’m just cranky and tired from having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn for my sucky part-time job, but I prefer my first theory.

In the mirror, I glare scornfully at my long chocolate-brown locks and consider—not for the first time—cutting my hair really really short.

I know I won’t, though. Even if taking care of it is a pain in the ass, I like how it looks too much and I’m too stubborn to give that up.

My eyes travel down to the black, slightly too-tight blouse I’m wearing. I consider attempting to close another button, but, no, it would be futile. To be honest, despite the unfortunate amount of cleavage, the uniform from the hotdog stand isn’t the worst I’ve had the pleasure of wearing.

At least it’s black, I think, shuddering to remember the aggressively pink sales-outfit I had to wear while slinging cotton candy once upon a blue moon.

Also, considering many of my customers will be dressed as their favourite characters from their favourite Japanese cartoon, it’s hard to really feel embarrassed about what I’m wearing.

Still, the logo on my back—literally a burning dog—is pretty horrifying.

“Emma, you’re going to be late!” my mother hollers up the stairs.

I glance at my phone and swear.

Spot on as always. My mom really missed her calling as a fortune teller.

“No I won’t, I’ll be down in a sec!” I yell back, already pulling my hair back into a simple ponytail.

I take a moment to appreciate my handiwork. Eh, good enough.

It’s just going to be me and Manny manning the cart today, so I don’t bother putting on make-up.

That hurdle cleared, I begin digging through my room for my car keys, lifting up abandoned pieces of clothing and gaming paraphernalia left and right. I stare longingly at my laptop when I come across it, the only decent piece of technology that I own.

Well, it’ll be there when I get back.

I ultimately find my keys on the electrical engineering textbook that’s been gathering dust on my nightstand for far too long.

Not for much longer though, if I have anything to say about it. I almost have enough to get started on my master’s.

And all it cost me was hundreds of hours of minimum wage labour and most of my dignity. You’d think a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering would be enough to get a slightly more decent job, but nope. Anyway, it’s a small price to pay for a brighter future. I am not ending up like—

My mom looks up from the piles of laundry she’s sorting on the kitchen table as I hurry down the creaky stairs two steps at a time on my trusty black sneakers. With the table occupied, there isn’t really a proper place for me to eat breakfast in this rundown little shack we call home, but I don’t have time anyway.

“There you are,” my mom says with a sigh upon my entry, “I need you to pick up your little brother from—”

“Karate practice this afternoon, got it.”

“Right, and your little sister from—”

“Ballet, because they both felt the need to fulfil their stereotypical gender roles, I’m aware.”

My mother raises a brow at me, a talent I’m grateful to have inherited. “Save your sarcasm, young lady, you’re going to need it today, I’m sure. Can I count on you?”

The question stings a little, and I try not to let it show on my face.

To be fair, I wasn’t always as helpful or organised. My initial reaction to the realisation of the inherent unfairness of the world I was born into wasn’t exactly... productive. I went through a pretty bad rebellious party girl phase, with all the wrong friends and bad decisions.

It took a pregnancy scare to make me realise I was on track to repeat history and convince me that if I wanted to break the cycle, I’d have to start with me.

“You know you can,” I say, as I brush past my mother to grab the least spotty apple from the counter.

And she really can, ’cause one of the first things I vowed to become, was a better big sister.

The twins—fraternal, obviously—are twelve, going on thirteen, making them nine years my junior, so Mom often relies on me to help take care of them. From the racket outside I can tell they’re currently playing in the jungle-slash-garbage-dump-hybrid we call a backyard.

Honestly, I don’t even mind taking care of them too much—they’re little shits, but they’re my little shits.

Figuratively, that is. Like I said, not planning to repeat the mistakes of my mother.

“Good,” Mom says. “And remember, if you see anything weird going on—like flickering lights or atmospherical distortions—you get your butt out of there.”

“I know, I know,” I reply, not too worried. I don’t bother to tell her that it should really be ‘atmospheric.’ It’s not her fault she had to drop out of school. It’s mine, for existing.

Anyway, like most people, I’ve grown kinda numb to the threat of the strange phenomenon that occurs from time to time on our little speck of green and blue called Earth.

It started about a year ago. An enormous, swirling, dark-blue portal suddenly appeared at an international soccer game and swallowed up all the players, supporters, and whoever else was present, yet left everything else intact. The live camera footage showed the ball, coasting on its remaining momentum, roll into the goal uncontested.

Technically, it could have been considered a win for Belgium, but nobody cared. Well, except for the Belgians, maybe.

Since then it happens every month or so. The locations seem random, all over the world, except that they’re always large gatherings of people. A protest rally against big oil, a shopping mall on Black Friday, a ceremony to honour the fallen from World War II, a high school reunion...

Every major power is investigating, of course, and they’re all terribly suspicious of one another, but so far nothing has been turned up. Supposedly. It doesn’t help that none of the people who’ve disappeared till now have returned.

People started avoiding large events after a while, afraid to get ‘portalled,’ as people have taken to calling it. Not everybody stays home, however; after all, many large events happen every day, and the phenomenon occurs only about once a month, at one location. Still, many events have taken quite a hit, selling up to 20% to 30% fewer tickets—enough to force budget cuts, but not enough to justify cancelling them, in most cases.

At least, that’s what the news says. Frankly, I can hardly tell the difference at the Comic-Con where I’ve been slinging hot dogs the past couple of days.

I throw on a jacket to hide the hideous logo on my back and head for the front door.

“Say goodbye to your dad!” Mom shouts after me right when I reach it.

My hand freezes on the door handle to freedom, and I turn towards the couch where I know he’ll be.

I am not disappointed. Well, I am, actually, as he’s already cracked open his first can of beer and doesn’t even look up from the telly when I call out, “Bye Dad!”

He just sort of grunts, absorbed in his game.

The pile of empty cans on the floor gives me pause, and I sigh quietly.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Not his first, then.

More likely he’s spent the night out in front of the telly again, insomniac from the pain in his back, self-medicating on cheap beer and aspirin like always. His liver must be working miracles. A macabre voice in the back of my mind wonders how long it will last.

My gaze traces over his sallow face and sunken eyes. They were keen once, if Mom’s pictures are to be believed, but that was before the accident.

Unable to bear the guilt roiling around in my gut any longer, I do what I always do, and get out of there post-haste.

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“Come on come on come on...” I mutter as the engine sputters.

Three fruitless minutes later, I let my forehead drop onto the steering wheel with a frustrated sigh.

I’ll have to ask our next-door neighbour to take another look at it; that my trusty rustbucket with her off-white exterior and smelly upholstery defied the odds thus far, can be credited entirely to him, but even he won’t be able to keep her running indefinitely.

A sinking feeling in my stomach predicts this might have been my ugly duckling’s death rattle.

Having to get a ‘new’ car would definitely set me back a fair bit on my college plans, so I really hoped she’d last another two years or so.

All the more reason to not get fired. Come on, Emma, no time for a pity party. As always.

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and get out to fetch my bicycle.

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The advantage of taking the bike is that I can ignore most of the traffic congesting the roads, so I might actually still make it in time, even if it’s a literal uphill climb.

The downside is that the traffic that does bother me, bothers me a lot.

And since the last thing I’m waiting for as I struggle uphill with burning calves and sweat dripping down my brow, is for some smarmy douche to pull up next to me on a scooter and make an abysmal attempt at flirting with me, that’s naturally what happens.

“Hey there, sweetcheeks,” he calls out to me. “Your dad must be a baker, ’cause you’ve got some very nice buns!”

Great. One of those.

I glance over and my brows rise. Never expected to see Legolas riding a Vespa, obvious blonde wig billowing in the wind from beneath his helmet. Or to see him leering at my chest.

“Actually,” I huff out as I fasten an extra button on my jacket one-handed, “he’s an alcoholic. But thanks for playing, and better luck next time.”

Unfortunately, he does not take the hint.

“I’m fond of a pint myself!” he exclaims, like we’ve got something in common now. “How about we grab one at the Con? That’s where you’re headed, right?”

Really? I tell you my dad’s an alcoholic, and you suggest going for a drink? I’m officially calling you Lego-ass now.

“Looks like you’re struggling a bit there, you can hang on to my arm if you like,” Lego-ass continues, unaware that I’m seriously considering taking out my frustrations with the shittiest morning ever by ripping him a new one.

Ultimately, I decide to grit my teeth and bear it, as usual.

“Actually, I’m headed elsewhere,” I lie. “In fact, I have to take a right here, bye!”

I make a quick right turn into a narrow alley that smells faintly of urine.

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name!” Lego-ass calls after me.

“Nonya!” I shout back, smirking to myself.

He shouts something after me, but I don’t bother to try and make out what he’s saying.

Hang from his arm... I may not have a lot, but I still have my dignity.

Now I just have to hope Lego-ass doesn’t get a hankering for hotdogs today.

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Despite the small detour I had to take, I arrive at the Con only four minutes late.

I hurry through security, throwing an over the top wink at my big pal Steve as I empty my pockets. Steve—a massive, muscular black dude with a shaven head—maintains his impassive façade like always.

Some day I’ll get a reaction out of you, Security Steve. Mark my words.

When I arrive at the hotdog cart, anxiously glancing around for my boss, I do a double-take. “Josh? I didn’t know you were working today...”

Of course he’s here when I haven’t put on any make-up, and my hair is matted to my forehead with sweat. Screw you too, universe!

It’s not that I’m particularly interested in dating Josh. Frankly speaking, I’ve learned the hard way that dating is too expensive and time-consuming for me to afford right now, but I’d still prefer to look good in front of him. It’s the principle of the thing.

Josh looks at me with his pale blue eyes and smiles his dimply smile. “Hey Emma! Yeah, Manny called in sick, so the boss was kind enough to inform me that I was running an extra shift today.”

Ah yes, good old Artie—our boss—ever the charmer. He got me this too-tight blouse on purpose. I know this for a fact because when I asked him if he had any larger sizes, he told me he did but wasn’t going to give me one, as me wearing the smaller size would help with sales.

I believe his exact words were, ‘If you wanna sell sausage in a bun, show ’em some buns and get ’em thinking with their sausage.’

Sexist prick.

“Speaking of the... person who signs our cheques,” I begin, glancing around. “Has he been sighted?”

Josh nods. “Yeah, he swung by. But don’t worry: I got here before him and covered for you, told him you actually got here early but had to use the bathroom.”

I sag in relief. “Ugh, you’re the best.”

He laughs. “Why are you late anyway?”

I shrug. “Oh, you know. Just one of those days.”

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The morning passes at a snail’s pace as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

Left right, left right, repeat ad nauseam.

Somehow, people aren’t too hungry for hotdogs in the morning. Go figure. Artie still insists on having us there the whole day, as he thinks the people seeing us in the morning drives sales in the afternoon.

Considering the densely packed crowds in here, I sincerely doubt it makes any real difference.

I spend my downtime watching the crowd, and the particularly fancy costumes, like the guy in the complete Iron Man suit.

Damn, that must have cost a lot of effort. Some people really have too much time on their hands.

I push down on the spike of envy that thought triggers.

Deep breaths, Emma. Getting jealous isn’t productive. Just stick to the plan.

At some point, mid-morning, a prettily curvy girl in a Misty costume spots our cart. Her eyes light up, and she drags her blue-haired friend over.

I can tell the exact moment Thicc Misty switches her attention from processed meat-sticks in soggy buns to Josh’s pale blue eyes.

I swear, sometimes I’m not sure whether it’s his eyes or the food that draws more people. Josh plays it up too with his handsome smile; he’s the one who taught me all about the art of enticing tips.

And we need them, because Artie pays shit.

Truth be told, it’s the only reason I put up with the too-tight blouse, and haven’t just taken to wearing a tank top underneath.

I switch my attention to Thicc Misty’s friend, with the blue hair. She has a cute heart-shaped face with a button nose and striking grey eyes.

Her full lips are curved down, however.

On a whim, I lean over the counter and call out to her. “Since you’re here anyway, can I interest you in a dog?”

“Oh, no, I’m—,” she falters for a moment as she looks up at my bright smile. “Ehm, I’m not that hungry.”

“You sure? ’Cause it looks like you might be here for a while,” I add, glancing at her friend conspiratorially.

She glances at Thicc Misty, who’s laughing way too hard at one of Josh’s lame puns, and cracks a small smile. “You know what—sure.”

I take her order and begin assembling it, but take my time doing so, hoping to lengthen our interaction. It’s one of the things Josh taught me; speedy service is necessary sometimes, but it leaves you with less time to bond with your customer. I don’t have big hopes for a good tip from this girl, but all the little bits count.

Also, I’m bored out of my skull, waiting for things to pick up.

The girl watches me work, fidgeting, and right on cue, opens her mouth. “So, ehm, do you like working here?” She cringes a little right after she asks it.

I try hard not to grin. “Do I like working at the world’s lamest fast-food stand, selling phallic symbols made of processed meat? Sure, what’s not to love.” I wink.

I actually don’t hate it. I mean the standing, the hours, and the pay all suck, but preparing food and interacting with customers is pretty fun. So is fishing for tips. It’s like a game.

She laughs. “Do you not like hotdogs in general, or did I just make a terrible mistake?” she scrunches up her nose.

“No, they’re pretty good,” I reassure her. “I’ve just had too many.”

Like the two I had for breakfast this morning, after arriving. Artie is terrible at keeping track of inventory.

“For the record,” she says after a beat of silence. “I meant to ask if you like working at the Con.”

“Sure you did. Nice save.” Another wink.

Her mouth falls open, but her eyes sparkle. “Hey! You’re mean.”

I don’t hold back my grin this time, as I start adding her condiments.

To be honest, the con-goers are a pretty good crowd to work. I may at times consider their choice of costume unfortunate, but at least they’re passionate about stuff and are generally nice, happy, and just pleasant to deal with.

Smarmy douches like Lego-ass are the exception, not the rule.

“I do actually like working here,” I say more seriously, as I hand her the hotdog. “Much better than working festivals.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?” she asks

“No drunks.” A final wink. I may have overdone it.

Her smile when she hands me her money says I’m fine. “Keep the change.”

I nod thankfully. Don’t mind if I do!

She waves at me before melting into the crowd, dragged away by her enthusiastic friend.

“How much did you get?” Josh asks.

“One-thirty,” I reply, adding thirty cents to the public tip jar, and the rest to our hidden stash, which we’ll split at the end of the day. Artie doesn’t have a clue how much we actually make in tips, and we keep it that way, ’cause he’ll take any excuse to raid the tip jar for ‘crucial company expenses.’

Josh adds fifty cents to the public jar, all the while smirking at me. “I got three-fifty.”

I snort. “Jackass.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever he’s about to say is lost in the ear-piercing whine that erupts the moment a giant blue crack in space opens up overhead.

I can only stare up in horror as it expands into a swirling portal that envelops all of us.

Just one of those friggin’ days.