My wallet, sobbing.
Laurel.
Ohhh, man. “You make it all worth it,” I sigh, then kiss her little pink noggin.
Chapter Five: October Twenty-Sixth
October 26th, 2025
Pine Ridge, New York
“And the neck bone is connected to the shoulder bone. The shoulder bone’s connected to the arm bone. The clavicle is connected to the humerus—” I stop singing to Laurel when I notice she’s finally dozed off.
Thank. God. Of course, she didn’t want to nap for more than thirty minutes at a time for the past two days. Of course, today was the day she switched from four-ounce bottles to six-ounce. And also of course, it took me until the noon feeding to figure out that’s why she was so unsettled and kept waking up unhappy.
Between Laurel seeming to be starving and not wanting to sleep, and the major project I’m working on, I don’t think I’ve slept in two days.
I hurry to put her down in her rock-a-swing and race back to my computer. Yesterday, I was supposed to have a patch put in to fix a degradation bug in an older MenuGenius client’s software before their new menu launches for their grand reopening. They’re one of the biggest chains in South Korea, and I’m so behind, missing the first “Keep the customer rating at exceeds expectations” deadline, the second “this is the first date we told them it would be ready” deadline, and now skating towards unemployment on the final “it will definitely be ready no later than right the fuck now” deadline. It doesn’t help that they’re fourteen hours ahead.
My fingers fly, my eyes blur, I check, and double check, and... whoo.
It’s good. It’s good to go.
Relaxation slams into me, a full-body shudder that undoes all my muscles. I run final checks and check the “client view” option to see that it all looks good, and then I can send.
I lean back and watch the re-opening video that’s part of the launch. It covers the company’s history, starting in the 1970s. To be fair, it’s a really awesome video. They’ve got everything from Michael Jackson and former presidents eating their food in old video clips to K-pop stars and cartoon characters making cameos.
Multi-million dollar campaign, I think, contentment settling over me. I helped them thrive, get there. They can afford it. I might not be facing firing—or at least a scary interview with my boss about squeaking by my deadline. I could be getting a raise.
Yeah. The CEO could love the way it looks, the way the launch goes, and the sleek new online customer ordering platform and survey interface. He’ll call the head of MenuGenuis, who’ll call the regional manager, who’ll call the head of IT, who’ll say it wasn’t some effing bot, it was a hard-working little guy with astigmatism, a good old remote coder, Artie Taylor. My boss gets the call. Yep, at only 24, he’s a thriving force for human ingenuity and dedication, he’ll say. My boss will call me. You’re getting a raise!
And then I’ll have money to pay off the credit cards, and Laurel will have everything she ever needs. I can pay for a private specialist, one of those doctors who comes to celebrities’ houses and tells them they should stop injecting themselves with goldfish brains to look younger, or something like that.
Uh. No. No, Artie, you’ll never get that kind of money, not from this.
But that’s okay, if Laurel is safe and happy.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
“Wahhh!”
I sit up with a gasp, and realize...I’ve screwed up. I fell asleep. My phone is buzzing. My workspace app is flashing. My whole screen is flashing—and I know why.
I fell asleep and never got out of client preview and back to coder view to send the final approval after final checks. And Laurel is awake again. Baby or work?
No work, no food for baby. I hit the button to send the final project live, grab Laurel, answer my phone, and hit the app’s notifications.
“I just sent it! I’m so sorry, I—there was a sudden storm and the router went out, and my daughter is sick,” I gasp out before my boss can say anything.
Amazingly, there’s a pause. I can almost hear the scream dying out of his voice, even though all I actually hear is a shuddering sigh.
“It’ll never, ever happen again.”
How am I supposed to promise that?
My boss finally speaks. “I didn’t know you had a kid.”
