When I burst into the room the manager is hunched over his file cabinet, franticly pulling out papers and folders and stuffing them into the paper shredder. I shove him out of the way and grab for the last paper, but it's too late, and the shredder pulls it through.

I turn to the manager as he gets to his feet. He is a pale, pudgy man with a round face and a fat mustache. He wears dull office attire: black slacks, a white shirt, an uninspired tie. His hands tremble as he backs away from me.

"Listen, I can't tell you anything," he whimpers.

"Why not?" I demand, baffled. "Why can't you tell me why Miriam doesn't work here anymore? What's the big secret?"

"They won't let me tell you."

"Who won't? Your district managers?"

He shakes his head. "You don't understand. It's bigger than that. I had no choice. If I don't do what they want God knows what'll happen to me. My wife will leave me, I'll go bankrupt, I'll get cancer or be struck by lightning or something."

"What are you talking about?" I say, and then I notice that he has one more sheet of paper crumpled up in his hand. I pry it away from him and straighten it out on his desk. It's a brief memo, apparently sent by mail. It says:

Mr. Brentwood:

Thank you for complying with our wishes in a timely manner. In payment for your compliance, we will expect no drastic misfortune to befall you for at least one year. Enjoy your year, Mr. Brentwood.

Regards,

The Powers That Be