concern.â
Dirkley raised an eyebrow. âFor the life of me, I canât tell if youâre being sarcastic or not.â
âNo, that wasnât sarcasm. It was a genuine thank-you.â
The navigator bobbed his head emphatically. âRight, right. I mean, obviously. Your sarcasm is just kind of difficult for me to pick up on occasionally.â
âI hadnât noticed,â Charlie replied.
âReally? Iâm surprised to hear that. I feel like you have to clarify it often enough for me that you would have picked up on it by now.â It took a restrained effort on Charlieâs part to not roll his eyes. âAnywayâready to get on with it?â
Charlie took a quick glance at his watch. It was a little early still, but based on the day he was having, he was eager to be anywhere but there. He gave a thumbs-up to Dirkley, who gave one back. The navigator had adopted a look suggesting that he was listening intently to something over the radio.
While Dirkley was busy listening to the Institute chatter, Charlie discreetly set about opening the envelope heâd received from Ferryman Resources. As far as anyone knew, Charlie had risen to such an esteemed level that he had regular correspondence with the president. Though Charlie was happy to let that particular rumor procreate, it couldnât have been further from the truth. As far as Charlie knew, no employees communicated with the president, mainly because no one outside of his own office had met him.
It was just another one of the quirks of serving the Ferryman Institute that Charlie had long since gotten used to. The official line was that the presidentâs identity was kept secret so as to protect him from unnecessary bias and pressure. It made sense when viewed in a certain light, and given that the Institute pretty much ran itself, Charlie suspected most employees didnât bother giving it much thought. After all, if someone was capable of accepting theyâd become an immortal guide to the dead (and Charlie had long believed that the Institute only chose those who could), then it didnât exactly take an incredible effort to subscribe to the idea that the Ferryman Instituteâs president was an anonymous figure. Charlie didnât necessarily believe that was the whole truth, and, as was often the case with aspects of the Ferryman Institute, didnât particularly like it. However, as a recluse himself who didnât always color neatly inside the lines of the law yet wasnât punished for it, he didnât push his luck.
At least, he didnât push it on certain things. Charlie pulled the sheet of paper out of the envelope.
Ferryman Institute Form 439-B. Standard Ferryman Transfer Request.
It was the form any member of the Institute used to request either a change in positionâsay, from navigator to Ferryman, or Ferryman to managerâor an authorized discharge from the Institute. There was no set required term of service to request the latter, but conventional wisdom suggested that the Institute only started taking discharge requests seriously after an employee hit their third decade.
He scanned the form, reading the returned copy, which now contained the Office of the Presidentâs official response. The first bold section at the top read Summary of Request and, like its namesuggested, reiterated the important information from his original request for posterityâs sake.
Employee requesting: Formal termination of Ferryman contract.
It was the same thing he requested every time.
Years of service in role: 2.5 centuries. 25 decades. 250 years. A hell of a long time (technical term).
He thought the last bit was cute. Not that it mattered.
Reason for request: Losing my fucking mind.
His eyes lingered there, just for a short time in reality that felt much longer in Charlieâs head. He recognized those words for what they were: the first sign he was starting to get desperate.
Dirkley raised an eyebrow. âFor the life of me, I canât tell if youâre being sarcastic or not.â
âNo, that wasnât sarcasm. It was a genuine thank-you.â
The navigator bobbed his head emphatically. âRight, right. I mean, obviously. Your sarcasm is just kind of difficult for me to pick up on occasionally.â
âI hadnât noticed,â Charlie replied.
âReally? Iâm surprised to hear that. I feel like you have to clarify it often enough for me that you would have picked up on it by now.â It took a restrained effort on Charlieâs part to not roll his eyes. âAnywayâready to get on with it?â
Charlie took a quick glance at his watch. It was a little early still, but based on the day he was having, he was eager to be anywhere but there. He gave a thumbs-up to Dirkley, who gave one back. The navigator had adopted a look suggesting that he was listening intently to something over the radio.
While Dirkley was busy listening to the Institute chatter, Charlie discreetly set about opening the envelope heâd received from Ferryman Resources. As far as anyone knew, Charlie had risen to such an esteemed level that he had regular correspondence with the president. Though Charlie was happy to let that particular rumor procreate, it couldnât have been further from the truth. As far as Charlie knew, no employees communicated with the president, mainly because no one outside of his own office had met him.
It was just another one of the quirks of serving the Ferryman Institute that Charlie had long since gotten used to. The official line was that the presidentâs identity was kept secret so as to protect him from unnecessary bias and pressure. It made sense when viewed in a certain light, and given that the Institute pretty much ran itself, Charlie suspected most employees didnât bother giving it much thought. After all, if someone was capable of accepting theyâd become an immortal guide to the dead (and Charlie had long believed that the Institute only chose those who could), then it didnât exactly take an incredible effort to subscribe to the idea that the Ferryman Instituteâs president was an anonymous figure. Charlie didnât necessarily believe that was the whole truth, and, as was often the case with aspects of the Ferryman Institute, didnât particularly like it. However, as a recluse himself who didnât always color neatly inside the lines of the law yet wasnât punished for it, he didnât push his luck.
At least, he didnât push it on certain things. Charlie pulled the sheet of paper out of the envelope.
Ferryman Institute Form 439-B. Standard Ferryman Transfer Request.
It was the form any member of the Institute used to request either a change in positionâsay, from navigator to Ferryman, or Ferryman to managerâor an authorized discharge from the Institute. There was no set required term of service to request the latter, but conventional wisdom suggested that the Institute only started taking discharge requests seriously after an employee hit their third decade.
He scanned the form, reading the returned copy, which now contained the Office of the Presidentâs official response. The first bold section at the top read Summary of Request and, like its namesuggested, reiterated the important information from his original request for posterityâs sake.
Employee requesting: Formal termination of Ferryman contract.
It was the same thing he requested every time.
Years of service in role: 2.5 centuries. 25 decades. 250 years. A hell of a long time (technical term).
He thought the last bit was cute. Not that it mattered.
Reason for request: Losing my fucking mind.
His eyes lingered there, just for a short time in reality that felt much longer in Charlieâs head. He recognized those words for what they were: the first sign he was starting to get desperate.
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