The day was July 3, 2029. The crops in all the neatly procured, subsidized fields lining the highway were starting to pop. Where the fields were healthy, the corn was definitely knee-high, and the soft, bushy rows of soybeans were definitely looking super bright and green. The stretch of roads was quiet, like always, as I raced my black 2008 Ford Focus to my mom’s house. She raised my two older brothers and me on her own since I was barely sixteen. “Come on, Katherine!” I shouted at my with frustration, “Can you drive any faster!” No matter how fast I drove, it didn’t seem fast enough.

When I started my usual shift at my totally normal, not embarrassing, soul-sucking, lifeless job, nothing really convinced me the world was going to end. That something more lifeless than my soul would start rising from the grave. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was convinced the world was ending in the middle of my shift at 12 pm, even when the store was practically dead save for my co-workers, who were too busy and distracted by unloading and stocking the truck as I was. I wasn’t sure if the world was ending when I punched.

It was when I was walking to my car that I felt like something was off…

The parking lot smelled wrong.

I stood there with my keys already threaded between my fingers and tried to place it. Hot asphalt, oil, the faint sweetness from the fast-food place next door. All normal. But underneath that was something damp and metallic, like pennies left in the rain. My skin prickled, the way it always did when my senses picked up on something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

I told myself I was tired. I’d worked a double yesterday. I’d skipped lunch again because the break room lights buzzed too loudly. That explained the tight feeling in my chest, the way every sound felt turned up just a notch too high.

A shopping cart rattled somewhere behind me. I flinched harder than I should have.

“Get it together,” I muttered, pressing the key fob too many times until the Focus chirped back at me in protest. The sound echoed across the lot. Too empty. At noon, there should’ve been cars coming and going, people arguing with their kids, someone blasting music with the windows down. Instead, everything felt paused, like the world was holding its breath.

I’ve always noticed patterns. My mom used to say it was a gift, even when teachers called it a distraction. I notice when shelves aren’t stocked in the right order, when conversations drift off-script, when people say they’re fine but their voice says something else entirely. It’s how I get through the day—by memorizing the rules and watching for deviations.

And this? This was a deviation.

A man stood near the far edge of the lot, half-shadowed by the loading dock. He wasn’t doing anything. That was the problem. He just stood there, head tilted at an angle that made my neck ache in sympathy. I waited for him to check his phone, light a cigarette, anything that fit into one of the usual categories.

He didn’t.

“Hey,” I called, immediately regretting it. My voice sounded too loud in my own ears. The man didn’t respond. Slowly—too slowly—he turned his head toward me.

I locked up.

My brain likes facts. Facts are solid. Facts don’t surprise you. So I focused on them: his shirt was a uniform I didn’t recognize, stained dark in places it shouldn’t be. His movements were delayed, like a video buffering. His eyes didn’t quite focus on my face. My heart started pounding, but not in the explosive way people talk about in movies. It was rhythmic. Measured.

I took a step back, keys clenched so tight they hurt. Gravel crunched under my shoe, and the sound seemed to flip a switch. The man lurched forward.

That’s when my brain finally let go of the word it had been avoiding.

Something was wrong.

I didn’t scream. Screaming wastes air. I moved—fast, precise—unlocking the car, slamming the door, hands shaking just enough that I missed the ignition the first time. When the engine finally turned over, the relief was so sharp it almost hurt.

As I peeled out of the lot, tires squealing, my thoughts stacked on top of each other in neat, terrified lines.

This wasn’t in the rules.
The pattern was broken.
I needed my mom.

And for the first time that day, I was sure of one thing: whatever was happening, I was going to notice it before most people did—whether I wanted to or not.