I patted my pockets as he walked back toward the kitchen, felt something that hadn’t been there before, and pulled it out. It was a business card. Stiff, with sharp edges. Quality stock. The image of an eye was on the front. The same eye I’d seen on the garage door in the hallway where I’d choked that man. Below was that same obscure word I’d seen on the bathroom mirror: OBSIDEO. I flipped it over and read the words ALWAYS WATCHING centered on the card. I was surprised to find a web address listed underneath this statement: www.eyeofobsideo.com. We’ve come to a time where criminals have their own URLs. Have to budget server costs into their illicit business expenses.

I never visited that website, and would avoid it if I were you as well.

The early bird chirped outside – damned overachiever – and the first grey light of dawn colored the window shades. This side of the world was waking, the other side bedding down. Soon the streets would be filled with men and women bustling to work, children scrambling to class, everyone riding that one-way conveyor belt to the coffin. Engaged in a day of sublime normality while I struggled to reorient my worldview to fit the events of the past couple of days. Strive to understand what purpose I served this total stranger, what data set I represented to Professor Fuckbutt. How I could possibly go on without scanning every room I entered for hidden cameras and looking over my shoulder every few steps for echolocating clones. Not to mention convince Cassie to return home and allow me to see my son again.

I heard the coffee machine gurgle, then Al walked out with two steaming cups. Handed me one and sat on the edge of his chair. I gave him the business card, if that’s what you’d call it, and he turned it over a couple of times.

“What’s this?” he said.

“Found it in my pocket. Saw that same picture, and that word OBSIDEO, back at the place they took me.”

Al scowled. “Always watching?”

“Think I’d make that thing, have it printed as some kind of premeditated alibi in case I got caught cheating on my wife? Come on, Al. That’s crazy.”

He sipped his coffee, and I sipped mine. Better than the brew in that random break room, but not by much. I’ll never touch another Krispy Kreme donut, though. And that’s a damn shame.