While on the surface, we have the (limited) ability to freeze time. This provides the chance to pause and check notes whenever a deal gets stuck, or when the performance of minor parlor tricks is necessary to make humans find us impressive and therefore trust us.

Some tablets can be customized to allow for multiple team members’ arrivals and departures. Meaning, if given a position of authority by KQ, I could hold on to a subordinate or subordinates when traveling, or ship coworkers back down to Hell if they were no longer contributing to a deal.

That’s enough education. If you don’t get it by now, you won’t make it on the Fifth Floor, and I’m wasting my breath.

—

I HAD TO SIT on the curb for a second before I could stand. It was a hard transition, going from Hell to Earth. But it was even harder on the way back. The air on Earth is so delicious. I can’t understand why you people insist on ruining it. It’s like you’ve been given the best feast in the world, and you let nine billion people use the table as a toilet. But then you freak out if your neighbor’s dog poops on your lawn.

“Can I help you?” I asked as I approached the girl. KQ made us practice our Trustworthy poses during every Thursday meeting, but the girl startled anyway. They always do.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the answer to your prayers,” I said. It wasn’t a total lie. I was an answer.

“What—how—?”

“You said you wanted good news, right?”

“Yes,” she said, the mailbox between us.

“Well, I’m here to help.”

“I—I can’t—” she said, looking at her front door.

“Don’t worry, they can’t see me. I’ve paused everything.” I reached my hand out just over her ear. She flinched, but I didn’t touch her. Instead, I plucked a butterfly from the air, frozen in flight. I placed the butterfly on the girl’s index finger and flicked my wrist. It fluttered into movement. I flicked my wrist again, and it dropped back to her finger. Her eyes went wide.

Humans always turn to putty around butterflies.

“So,” I asked, “how can I help you?”

“If I don’t get into Stanford, my mother will kill me,” the girl said, wide eyes welling. “I mean literally kill me. Like, I won’t be allowed to do anything.”

This is why I love Spec Threes: they have the softest expectations of what it means to die.

“I don’t know what to do,” she went on. “The letter should be in here, but I’m too scared to open the mailbox.”

“Don’t worry . . . ,” I said, pausing in the way that makes a person tell you their name.

“Katherine,” she answered.