laugh. He handed it to her. The woman scanned it, and placed it in a bin.
“ID?”
He handed it over.
She placed it in another bin.
“The woman—”
“Yes?” asked the woman, tilting her head. This time, her smile seemed different.
Fake.
Plastic.
“The woman at the entrance said I’d get my ID back after. I was just making sure that’s right.”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman, holding the same smile. This time it seemed different.
Deformed.
“We’re finished,” she said in a pleasant voice. “Just go into that room and take a seat.”
“In there?” he pointed.
“In there,” she repeated.
“Wow, I finally made it,” he stammered. “I was hoping I wasn’t late . . .”
“You are right on time,” she interrupted.
The room was circular. Cold and empty.
A chair was in the middle of the room.
His footsteps echoed.
Charlie sat down, making himself comfortable.
He tried to relax.
“At least I was on time,” he whispered.
A blissful look crept across his face.
Charlie Hoag had been on time.
And he looked at his watch one more.
And at 10:59 am, the door shut and the gas entered the room.
At 11:03 am, Charlie’s lungs filled.
Three minutes later, his heart stopped.
And at 11:05 am, Charlie Hoag’s last thought flashed in his mind.
At least I was on time.
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