The Ferryman Institute by Colin Gigl Page A

He’d never admitted those feelings to anyone, least of all in such dramatic terms, but he was starting to get the sense that things were coming to a head. It was the real reason why he disappeared so frequently despite the fact his managers threw enough guilt in his direction to make a Catholic weak in the knees. He hated that, too—disappointing anyone, let alone his managers—but if his choice was either a clear conscience or his sanity, it was going to be the latter every day and twice on Sunday.
    There was also a difference—at least, in Charlie’s mind—to admitting his concerns to some anonymous pencil pusher versus someone in his inner circle. He was too proud and stubborn to tell Melissa, or Dirkley, or even Cartwright about what was going on in his head. Rightly or wrongly, he was sure that if he spilled his guts, he’d eventually get forced over to mental services for a few months, maybe a couple years if it was that bad. Then the Institutewould start to miss his talent, so, as a matter of course, they’d prop him up, stamp him with a clean bill of health, give him the requisite Good as new! pep talk, slap him on the ass, and throw him back into the Ferryman wild.
    But Charlie couldn’t do that. It was too big of a gamble, too much he could lose.
    A secret shared could never be put back into the box from whence it came. He needed the freedom that the Institute begrudgingly allowed him. Even if his excursions away were limited affairs, they’d always been enough to put his life back into perspective. There was something about getting away from there—from the bureaucracy, the intensity, the sheer single-mindedness of it—and returning to the “real” world, even briefly, that kept Charlie’s sanity intact. Hopefully it always would.
    His eyes finally moved to the next section. A thin black line cut across the page, Official Use Only written underneath.
    Number of employee transfer requests: 6049.
    Status of request: DENIED.
    If denied, please provide further details: Ferryman too valuable. Service required.
    Charlie didn’t even look twice at it, having seen that particular response six thousand and forty-eight other times. He folded the response in half and stuck it in his jacket to make sure no one else would see it. When he returned from the assignment, he’d go back to his office and fill out another form, stuff it in an envelope, scrawl OFFICE OF PRESIDENT ONLY hastily across it with a few underlines thrown in for good measure, and send it off. Then, he’d wait. Just like he always did. Eventually, he wouldget the response he wanted. That, or he would crack. Either way, something had to give soon, and that would be the end of Charlie Dawson, the Ferryman.
    Win-win, all around.
    â€œSounds like you’re in for a busy night tonight, after all,” Dirkley said, bringing Charlie’s focus to the immediate area. Dirkley’s eyes never left the computer screen, his fingers typing a furious set of notes all the while.
    With an understated grace, Charlie took out his key. “I always have busy nights, Dirkley. This place doesn’t know how to give me a goddamned break.”
    â€œWell, being the ace of the Institute doesn’t come without its downsides, I suppose. Though I like to think having a, dare I say, excellent navigator helps ease the burden a bit.”
    â€œQuiet, or you’ll give away the secret to my success,” Charlie said, the familiar small smile that was so often a fixture of his face once again back where it rightly belonged. Suddenly, a small green light, about the size of a Ping-Pong ball, lit up on the desk. “Aaaand there’s my cue.”
    Charlie gave a half salute, half wave to his partner, and tucked the clipboard neatly under his arm. He thrust his key straight out in front of him and gave it a twist, opening a new Ferryman Door. Silently, he disappeared beyond it.

CHARLIE
----
MR.