“Anyway. Just saying. I’m glad it’s you. Glad Dom sent someone I can actually work with. This is going to be a good month.”
We pull up to City Hall—massive, imposing, taking up an entire city block—and Marcus doesn’t even look for parking.
Just drives right up to the main entrance. Parks in a spot clearly markedCity Controller - Official Use Only.
Of course he has a reserved spot.
Of course it’s right by the door.
“Come on,” he says, already out of the car. Doesn’t open my door this time. The performance is over now that we’re in his territory.
I grab my bag and follow him up the steps. Through the massive doors. Into marble and columns and the weight of Philadelphia history.
City Hall. Where William Penn stands on top watching over the city.
Where Marcus Ashford now works as City Controller.
Where I’m going to spend the next month.
“Security first,” Marcus says, leading me through hallways that all look the same. Marble. More marble. Portraits of dead politicians who probably would have loved Marcus.
The security office is small. Cramped. A woman behind a desk who looks thrilled to be here.
“Temporary badge for Dylan Wells,” Marcus says. All business now. “She’ll be working with me for the month. Dom sent her clearance over this morning.”
The woman nods, pulling up something on her computer. “Still needs to complete the I-9 and tax forms. She can do that while the badge prints.”
She slides a clipboard across the desk. More paperwork. More evidence I’m actually doing this.
“Sit there. Look at the camera.”
I sit.
The camera is old. One of those instant photo printers that was outdated in 2010.
“Smile,” the woman says without inflection.
I smile. The fakest smile I’ve ever produced. The smile of a woman who’s about to spend thirty days working for a serial killer.
Flash.
“Wait here.”
She disappears into a back room. I can hear the printer whirring. Laminating. I fill out the forms. Social security number. Address. Emergency contact.
Emergency contact: Alexandria Archangelis.
The person who would notice if I disappeared. The person who would come looking. The person who currently won’t even reply to my texts because I don’t know how to listen to ghosts or believe in things I can’t explain. But she’d still burn down City Hall if something happened to me.
That’s what dandelions do—even when they’re furious with each other.
Marcus leans against the wall, scrolling through his phone. Probably checking his social media engagement. Seeing how many people liked his latest post.
The woman returns. Hands me a badge on a lanyard.
My face stares back at me.
DYLAN WELLS. TEMPORARY CITY EMPLOYEE. VALID 30 DAYS.
