The Prelude

4:44 AM

inspired by the film, Everything Everywhere All At Once

The Aftermath

His eyes opened to pulsing light. Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder around him. A scarf draped over a ceiling light turned everything amber, and the floor stuck slightly underfoot. A speaker sat on a chair and made the chair legs tremble. A cup landed in his hand, and someone laughed in his ear as a hand slid across his back. He took a sip and winced. It was sugary and strong enough to sting, but he swallowed anyway. Each time he drifted toward an edge, someone pulled him back in with an arm around his shoulder or fingers around his wrist.

“You’re good,” a man shouted, face shiny with sweat. “You’re with us!”

The man tugged him forward, and the crowd sealed around him. He laughed when other people laughed, nodded at jokes he didn’t hear, and danced because standing still made him noticeable in the worst way. He kept his cup raised. He followed a girl with yellow glitter on her eyelids toward a hallway where shoes spilled across the floor, and jackets slumped in corners. At the bathroom door, the girl turned and looked him up and down.

“Who’d you come with?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, but thought had already fled. Behind her, a voice sounded from inside the bathroom: “We’re full.”

The girl shrugged, stepped inside, and shut the door.

Someone shoved past with a hissed “Move,” and his heel caught on a shoe. A coat hook snagged his sleeve, ripping the fabric with a dry tearing sound, and he looked down at the split seam as heat spread across his face. In the living room, a guy with a red cup bumped him hard enough to slosh a drink down his chest.

“Watch it,” the guy snapped.

“I—sorry.”

The guy looked through him and turned away mid-sentence, already speaking to someone else. He stood with his shirt soaked through, the spill drying into evidence. The bass drove through his chest and his stomach clenched tight. The walls breathed him in and out, boxing in his lungs. The amber light stretched into streaks. His fingers found cold metal. The spin slowed. The music collapsed into a thin ringing.

He spilled onto tile, cheek pressed against the floor as his lungs dragged in air. When he pushed himself up, his shirt was gone, and one shoe was missing. His shoulder strained when he moved. He ran a hand over his face and felt stubble where his skin had been smooth, saw his eyes sunken in the brushed metal reflection of the washing machine. He lifted his hand and found faint lines at the corners of his fingers—creases that didn’t belong to one night. Three front-loading machines lined one wall, their brushed metal faces dulled by fingerprints and scratches. Around the handles, the metal was worn brighter, polished by years of palms. Above them, a blue digital clock hung slightly crooked: 4:44 AM.

He stood as the tile pressed cold through his socks. A stained ceiling tile above showed a hairline crack running corner to corner, darkened where moisture had seeped in and dried. The air was warm in the wrong way, used air smelling like soap that had tried and failed to cover something older. Somewhere underneath the electrical buzz, something low and wet sounded once. He walked to the second machine, where the drum moved with a harder rhythm. Through the fogged glass he saw daylight flashes, a long counter, people in line, and a uniformed figure leaning forward. The smell coming through the door was disinfectant, old paper, and the poignant sting of nervous sweat. He gripped the handle and pulled.

A crowded office with low ceilings and fluorescent panels hummed overhead. The air was dry and recycled. A line of people stood behind a rope barrier with a sign near the front: APPOINTMENTS ONLY in thick black letters. Another sign taped crookedly to the wall: NO EXCEPTIONS. He stood behind an older woman holding a folder to her chest, her hands trembling, the folder worn at the edges. She smoothed the paper with her thumb. At the counter, a clerk sat behind glass with a small speaker, her eyes on a computer.

“I’m here about my benefits,” a man said, holding a baby on his hip, the baby’s face flushed from crying.

“Next,” the clerk said, eyes still on the computer.

“I’ve been trying to call—”

The clerk looked up, her eyes glassy and impenetrable. “If you don’t have an appointment, you need to leave.”

“I was told to come in. I was told someone would help me.”

The clerk tapped a laminated sheet on the counter with one finger. “Appointments only.”

The baby started crying and the man bounced the child. “Please. We don’t have heat. She’s sick.”

Behind him, people in line moved restlessly. Someone murmured. A security guard near the wall straightened, one hand moving to his belt.

The older woman in front whispered, “They did this to my sister. Denied her three times. She died waiting.”

The man at the counter tried again. “I just need someone to look at—”

The guard stepped forward and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man flinched, pulling the baby closer. “Don’t touch me.”

“Sir,” the guard said, voice calm. “You need to leave.”

“You’re going to put us outside? In February?”

The baby’s crying intensified, a thin wail that filled the small space. The man’s voice cracked. “Please. Just look at the paperwork. That’s all I’m asking.”

The guard tightened his grip, and the man’s shoulder dipped under the pressure. The baby screamed.

He’d been that man—standing under bad light with paperwork damp from his hands, keeping his voice level so no one could call him a problem, watching the person behind the glass blink slowly and look past him like he was a pane of glass. He’d stood in lines that moved backward, where every step forward was swallowed by red tape. He’d been told to leave when leaving meant freezing but staying meant suffering. Every instruction, every polite dismissal, every waiting room glance chipped away at him, until compliance itself felt like surrender. And so, he braced against the invisible weight of all the small indignities, the quiet erosion of his presence, the dismissal of his proof, and for the first time in a long time, he acted for himself. He pushed past the rope.

“Stop.” His voice cut through the sterile hum. Heads turned.

“Let him talk to someone.”

The clerk’s eyes fixed on him. “Step back.”

He didn’t move. The security guard released the man with the baby, stepping toward him instead, body squared.

“Back up.”

He pointed at the counter, finger shaking. “You’re telling him to leave with a sick baby. You’re hiding behind glass and laminated sheets while people freeze.”

The guard grabbed his arm. Soon all he could see was the baby’s red face, the mother’s empty chair at home, and the paperwork that would be filed and forgotten.

“You’re killing people,” he said. “You know that. You sit here every day and kill people.”

The first hit landed across his ribs, and he stumbled into the rope barrier. He threw a hand out to steady himself, but the guard punched him again. His shoulder slammed against the wall and his mouth filled with the taste of metal. He heard himself yelling as two more guards appeared. One hooked an arm under his neck. Another pushed him down. His cheek hit the tile. He felt pressure between his shoulder blades, a knee digging into him, some hands twisting his arms backward. His chest constricted, the pressure forcing his breath shallow while every joint strained against the tug. The world narrowed to the force pressing him forward, the unyielding resistance of bodies and authority around him. Every second stretched; every movement required effort just to stay upright.

“Stop resisting.”

His knees buckled, his shoulders sagging, the arms hanging heavy at his sides. The weight drove his ribs into the floor. He gasped but nothing came in. His eyes felt heavy; the world shrunk to a pinprick at the center of his gaze. He gasped again, but his chest wouldn’t expand. The ceiling lights became scars. Voices stretched and warped. His hand scraped across the floor and found a metal table leg. As he gripped the cold, smooth surface, the office sounds thinned into a dull hiss.

He spilled back onto tile in the bleach-smelling room, gasping, one hand pressed to his ribs where his side ached with each breath. When he tried to stand, his knees complained, stiff and unwilling. He steadied himself on the machine’s metal face. A dull ache ran through his wrists. His hands looked different. Skin hung looser across his knuckles. Fine lines had settled around his mouth. When he touched his face, the stubble was coarser.

He turned to the third machine. The glass was less fogged, cleaner than the others; with the metal around the handle polished bright. Through the glass came sounds: a phone buzzing, a microwave beeping, the clatter of dishes, and the shuffle of feet. His palm pressed flat against the glass, and its warmth welcomed him in. He twisted the handle and pulled.

A dining room thick with synthetic lavender and reheated tomato sauce, the long table holding stacks of papers—bills, forms, envelopes sealed with yellow stamps. A woman sat at one end staring at her phone, shoulders drawn up, one hand gripping the edge of the table. Two friends stood near the counter, whispering and laughing softly at something on a screen. The woman’s eyes moved from her phone to the table—the scattered papers, the cups with dried rings at the bottom, the fork still lying where someone had left it. Her eyes cut to him, quick and sharp, then back to her phone before he could meet her gaze. But he’d seen it from the corner of his eye. His stomach tightened. He stood and moved quietly, gathering papers into stacks, clearing cups, rinsing dishes.

“Did you send that email?” the woman asked without looking up.

“I’m doing it now.” He reached for his phone.

One of the friends smirked. “He always says that.”

The other laughed. “He means well.”

He forced a small smile and typed as they watched. His phone buzzed with another message. He glanced down to see his name in a thread. The screen showed only a few lines before his thumb moved.

we need an exit strategy

how do we phase him out

he’s going to make a scene

His throat tightened and he scrolled, not wanting to, unable to stop.

he always does this

even she wants out

she asked me how to do it

He looked up. The woman finally met his eyes, irritation flashing across her face.

“You went through my phone?”

He swallowed. “I saw—”

One of the friends stepped closer, hands up. “It was just venting.”

The other friend sighed. “We’ve talked about this.”

The woman set her phone down. “Can you not do this right now?”

He stood still, the dish towel wet and heavy in his hand. A fork rested on the counter beside him, tines down, catching light from the window. The room’s edges sharpened. Blood pounded in his ears. He tried to speak and found no air. The world tilted off level. His hands went numb at the fingertips. The dish towel slid from his grip, hitting the floor. He took a breath. It didn’t go all the way in. He tried again. The moment stretched past when breath should have come. His body inhaled without result. His lungs sent the request again, then again, each one sharper, while his throat refused to open.

“I can’t—” The words collapsed.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

He backed away from the table as dark spots crept in at the edges of his vision, his hand going to his chest. Nobody moved toward him. Nobody touched him. The friends exchanged a look over his shoulder. He stumbled into the bedroom attached to the dining room. A chair in the corner held a pile of clothes waiting to be folded. On top sat a soft piece of fabric, worn at the edges. The color struck him as familiar, but he couldn’t place the shade of blue. When his fingers touched it, his stomach dropped. He gripped it, face pressed into the cloth, trying to pull air through panic. The fabric smelled of lake water and cold stones.

Behind him, someone laughed.

“See? This is what I mean.”

His lungs refused him. His fingers clenched. The blue fabric tore under the pressure, seam splitting with a dry rip. He froze, staring at the torn edge. His hand shot out and caught the metal frame of the chair, knuckles white around the cold bar.

He fell back onto tile in the fluorescent room, gasping, damp with sweat, still holding the torn piece of fabric. He pushed himself up as his ribs protested, his shoulder stiffened, and his joints ground with the effort. He looked at his hands to see more lines, rougher texture, and small spots of discoloration. When he stood, his knees popped quietly. His reflection in the washing machine glass showed a face he recognized but hadn’t seen before; it was harder and worn down. The fluorescent hum above him seemed louder now. But in the far corner, a flame, steady and yellow, turned the machines into tall shadows. The tile absorbed the lantern glow. He picked up the lantern, its metal handle warm from the flame. The light introduced depth to the scuffed floor. He turned toward the clock where the numbers still glowed: 4:44 AM. The low wet sound came again. He walked toward the door and opened it.

Cool air rushed in, wet with soil and grass. The lantern light spilled onto uneven ground. A fat toad with bumpy, dark skin sat near the threshold. It looked at him without moving, its body heavy on the damp ground. It croaked once, low and slow, then went still. He stepped around it and kept walking. The ground rose and dipped under him. Roots lifted the dirt into ridges. Moss softened some patches, slick with moisture, and wet leaves stuck to his socks. The air smelled alive—crushed greenery, cold water, and bark. Wind moved through branches, brushing against his face. When he walked too fast, a branch snagged his sleeve and tugged him back. His throat burned when he breathed through his mouth. His ribs hurt when he inhaled too deeply. His shoulder reminded him of the wall. His hands still trembled. When his foot landed wrong on a stone, pain shot up his ankle, but when he adjusted, stepping onto softer soil, the pain eased. The ground was springy in some places and firm in others. The wind cooled the sweat on his skin. The smell of damp soil filled his nose. As he slowed, the path opened ahead of him.

The sky exhaled darkness. The stars reflected like breath caught on black glass. The moon sat low enough to throw a pale path through the trees. He followed it until a small lake appeared between branches, its surface dark and still, the sky scattered across it. The shore was crowded with pebbles. Some were smooth, others jagged, pale, or dark. One pebble caught the moonlight with its pale, oval shape and thin vein running through it, dark against the pale stone. He reached out and picked it up. A primeval chill seeped from the stone, which held a density that belied its small size. He clutched it tightly in his left palm, the torn fabric still in his other hand. He lowered himself to the bank and lay among the pebbles. At the water’s brim, he watched the moon’s pale light shiver and reassemble on the surface with every passing ripple.

Mutable

She stood at her bedroom window. The stars were a sprawling, silver path she knew by heart—a map as intimate and familiar as the lines etched across her palm. The wind outside seemed to pause between breaths, as if waiting for her to decide. Something in her chest kept pulling, insistent, like a fishhook caught on a rib. She lifted the window slowly, holding her breath as the wood frame creaked. A draft of night air swept through the room, unexpectedly cold and smelling of wild grass and the hollowed-out silence of the distance. She ducked her head through, hands gripping the sill, and swung one leg over. Her bare foot searched for the ledge below, toes finding purchase on rough wood. The other leg followed. For a moment she was suspended, anchored to the room only by her grip on the sill. Then she released it, her weight vanishing as she dropped toward the dark earth below.

Her feet hit packed dirt with a soft thud that sounded too loud in the quiet. The ground held the day’s warmth underneath its cool skin. Small stones pressed into her soles and made her step carefully. The air smelled of hay and animals and dry grass. The night wrapped around her without a sound—the whisper of her dress moving against her legs and the soft collapse of earth under each step. The world felt vast and patient, like it had been waiting for her arrival. She walked along the edge of the path where the grass grew thicker. The wind moved over her arms and lifted the hem of her dress. The fabric caught starlight and held it briefly before releasing it back to the dark.

A boy from the neighboring ranch jogged up, hair sticking up in all directions, pants already damp at the cuffs like he’d been walking through tall grass.

“Where are you going?” he whispered.

She shrugged. “Just walking.”

He fell into step beside her, barefoot too, pants cuffed above his ankles. He kept looking up at the sky. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I like your dress,” he said, glancing at the fabric as it moved in the wind. “I’ve never seen that color before.”

She looked down at it and smoothed the hem with one hand.

“It’s cornflower blue.”

“I like it,” he said, but his eyes had already drifted upward, away from the fabric and toward the sky. They walked without speaking for a while, their footsteps falling in sync. The path curved slightly, and the grass grew taller on either side.

He broke the silence first. “I heard something once. About stars.” He gestured vaguely at the sky. “How some of them are already dead. Like, the star itself is gone, but the light it made is still traveling. So, we see it anyway.”

She stopped walking and looked up. The sky was dense with stars, more than she’d ever seen from her bedroom window. She tried to pick out which ones might be dead, which ones might be light from something that didn’t exist anymore.

The thought sat strange in her mind…things gone but still there.

“How long?” she asked.

“What?”

“How long does the light travel?”

He thought about it. “Years. Maybe hundreds of years. Maybe thousands.”

“Do you think it matters?” she asked.

“What?”

“If they’re already gone. If we’re just seeing the light from before.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know. I guess the light is real even if the star isn’t anymore.”

Real light from a dead thing. The thought sat in her chest like a stone.

The path curved downward and the air changed. Her arms prickled. Each breath felt heavier, thick with moisture. She could smell water before she could see it. The boy walked faster, pulling ahead, and she followed the sound of his footsteps through the tall grass. Crickets went quiet as they passed, then started up again behind them. They walked in silence for a while, the path narrowing where it curved through tall grass. Her dress caught on a hidden bramble, and she rushed to pull it free—the fabric straining for a heartbeat before giving way with a dry rip. She didn’t stop to look at the split seam; she simply hurried after him. The seed heads brushed against their legs, leaving small scratches that stung like whispered warnings. The boy picked up a dry reed and dragged it along the ground, making a soft scratching sound that kept time with their steps. The boy dropped the stick and moved faster, pulling ahead through the grass until they reached the lake.

The water lay dark and smooth, reflecting the sky. The wind moved across the surface and made small ripples that broke the reflection into fragments. The boy crouched and sifted through pebbles near the shore, hands quick, until he found one—pale, oval, with a thin vein running through it. The small click of stone against stone was the only sound.

“Here,” he said, placing it in her palm. “Hold this.”

The stone was cold and heavier than it looked. She closed her fingers around it and stood there, taking in the lake. The water stretched wider than she’d expected, dark and still, reflecting the stars in broken pieces. The shore curved away into shadow where trees leaned close enough to touch the surface with their lowest branches. Each movement sent a soft, rattling protest through the stones, the shore rearranging itself under her bare soles. Everything was quiet—just the small lapping of water against the shore, the wind moving through grass behind them. She closed her fingers around it and watched him wade into the water. It engulfed him to his waist, then his chest. He dove under, came up with water streaming from his hair. His face split into a grin.

“Come in,” he called, voice carrying across the still surface.

“We should go,” she said. Her voice sounded small.

He groaned. “Already?”

“We’ll get caught.”

He turned toward shore and started swimming in. He moved through the water with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times. The water pulsed around him softly, filling the silence with movement. She watched his arms pull through the dark water, watched the ripples spread from each stroke as the moonlight caught on the drops that fell from his elbows. She adjusted her weight; pebble still clutched in her fist and waited for him to reach the shallows. Halfway there, his head lifted in the water. His chin rose above the surface, then his neck as his shoulders strained upward. The smooth rhythm shattered into choppy, desperate pulls. She felt her back straighten as she watched his arms slap the surface and sent water splashing up in uneven bursts. His ragged gasps broke the quiet and carried across the surface.

“What—” she started, but her voice died.

His mouth opened. A cough, wet and choking. Then another. He tried to call out but nothing came except water and air fighting in his throat. His hand reached toward shore, fingers spread wide, grasping at nothing. His eyes found hers, wide and desperate. She took a step forward, pebble biting into her palm as the water closed over his head.

One second passed.

Two.

His hand broke the surface again—pale fingers reaching up like wheat bending in wind. She heard him gasp as his head broke the surface. His face emerged for just a moment, mouth open, trying to pull in air, but water rushed in instead.

Three seconds. Four. Five.

The ripples spread outward in perfect circles, one after another, each smaller than the last. They reached the shore and died against the pebbles. The surface smoothed. The wind stopped. The water became glass again, reflecting stars as if nothing had disturbed it.

She stood on the shore, cornflower blue dress moving against her legs in the breeze and stared at the place where he’d been.

She looked down at her hand. The pebble sat in her palm, dark vein visible even in moonlight. She closed her fingers around it again, tighter this time, until the edges pressed into her skin.

She lowered herself to the ground and sat among the rocks. The stones pressed into her legs through the thin fabric of her dress. She folded her arms on her knees and laid her head down; pebble still clutched in her fist. She closed her eyes and began to count.

One. Two. Three.

If she counted to one hundred, he would surface. If she counted slow enough, careful enough, the lake would change its mind. She kept her eyes shut and focused on the numbers. When she finished, he would be standing on the shore, dripping and grinning, ready to run before they got caught. They would make it home before anyone noticed they were gone.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

The numbers steadied her breathing. Each one was a promise. Each one brought him closer to coming back.

Sixty-two. Sixty-three. Sixty-four.

She opened her eyes and was met with the glimmer of sunlight breaking over the water. Someone roughly grabbed her shoulders from behind.

“Where is he?”

She opened her mouth, but her throat closed around the sound, tight as a fist. The person pushed past her, splashing into the water, diving under. More people came, voices rising, lanterns swinging. The lake filled with bodies searching, hands reaching down into the dark, breaking the surface over and over. She sat on the shore in her cornflower blue dress, holding the pebble he’d given her, and watched them search for him. They swam and dived to find him until they couldn’t anymore.

When they finally stopped, when they finally covered her with someone’s coat, when they finally stood and spoke in low voices about what to do next, she looked down at her hand again. The vein looked darker and deeper, like a wound that wouldn’t seal. She almost thought she saw a gleam of light beam through the vein, but the tears kept coming, and she couldn’t be sure.

All she knew was that she could never let it go.