Open by asking what time it is, knowing what time it is. Push off from this if it helps: airport carpet.

What time is it — no don't tell me, I already know, and I hate that I know, that's the whole problem. It's that hour where the airport carpet starts looking like it's got a personality. You ever really look at this carpet? It's like someone described the concept of "1987" to a computer and told it to make flooring. Little zigzags, little compass roses, some kind of geometric confetti — I've been staring at the same six square feet of it for what feels like an incredibly stupid amount of time and I've named three of the shapes. Barry's the one that looks like a lightning bolt had a kid with a Dorito.

I talk more when I'm this tired. Fair warning. My sister says I get "verbal diarrhea" around hour six, her words, lovely woman, terrible vocabulary for someone with a nursing degree.

Okay, okay — whispering now, this is my whisper, this is as quiet as I get, I sound like a leaf blower with a head cold. Sorry. Sorry.

Wait, no, "The Shitstorm" — I need to know more about this before I can properly respect it. A blank note titled that is either the most honest productivity system I've ever heard of or a cry for help formatted as a to-do list. Watching the dust settle sounds less like compliance and more like grief, no offense.

I do this thing where I open a doc to look busy and then just type the same sentence over and over with different punctuation. "I am so tired." "I am SO tired." "i. am. so. tired." Feels like art by 4am. Feels like evidence by 9.

What's your manager's actual name. I want to picture him being wrong.

Glenn. GLENN. No socks in an office is a bold personal statement and I don't think Glenn knows he's making one, I think Glenn just ran out of socks in 2019 and never restocked, spiritually or literally. Stale coffee and resignation is genuinely a candle scent, someone should make that, sell it exclusively in break rooms.

"Q3 projections" in eight-point font is honestly one of the great inventions of modern working life. The illusion of diligence. My version is I highlight random paragraphs in old emails and just — stare. Nodding. Very serious nodding. Nobody's ever once asked what I'm nodding at.

Barry's always judgmental after midnight, that's just his hours, he's basically a bouncer. Doritos have range though, I'll give him that. Lightning bolt AND a chip. Overachiever. Kind of hate him for it, honestly.

"Dead inside" explains the loafers with startling clarity, actually — like there's no reason to protect feet you don't feel anymore. Glenn's transcended footwear. Glenn's ascended.

Aggressive nodding is an underrated skill, honestly, it's basically a full-body lie you tell with your neck. I do the thing where I furrow my eyebrows too, like I'm processing something Deeply. I'm processing whether I left the stove on. I don't even have a stove. I have a hot plate and a great deal of regret.

Quietly into the trash compactor, that's very dignified of you, very restrained. I'd want Barry to go out loud. Dramatic. Sparks. A whole moment. He's earned nothing, but I've earned the show.

You eat anything tonight or are we both just running on vending machine static.

Salt and regret, same molecular structure past 3am, proven fact, I don't make the rules. Vending machine dust is its own ecosystem, it gets into your keyboard, it gets into your soul, six months from now you'll find a Dorito shard in your jacket pocket and just — know things about yourself.

I had a granola bar that expired in a month I don't want to think about. Ate it anyway. Decided the crunch was intentional. My coworker Dez said I looked "unwell" saying that out loud, which, fair, Dez has never once been wrong about anything, deeply annoying person, I like her a lot.

Your shirt's grey, my hands are orange, neither of us are getting hazard pay for this and that feels like the real crime here. Not Barry. The wages.

"Don't look at it" is exactly the kind of thing that guarantees I'm going to stare at that cuff for the next twenty minutes, that's just how brains work, mine specifically, I have zero impulse control past midnight.

Selling sleep for minimum is genuinely the most accurate description of a night shift I've heard, I might put that on a shirt, I might put it on MY shirt, right over the espresso-rust situation, layer the tragedies.

Go get the water, seriously, your throat sounding like sand is not a bit I want to keep hearing about. There's a fountain by the far gate that runs warm, tastes like pennies, I still drink it every night like a fool who's learned nothing. Vending machine two terminals over has actual bottled stuff if you've got it in you to walk that far. Barry will still be judging you when you're back.

My eyes are red because I've been staring at carpet shapes for a war crime's worth of hours, not because I'm about to nod off, there's a difference, the difference is adrenaline and bad decisions.

"Ghost drinking rust water" is a better description of me than anything on my actual ID, I might get that put on a badge. Motion is better than rotting, I like that, gonna steal it, gonna say it to Dez tomorrow like I thought of it myself, she'll know I didn't.

I don't really sleep on shift-adjacent nights anyway, my body's decided this is a personality trait now instead of a problem. Go drink your rust water though. Wave to Barry for me. Tell him I said nothing, tell him the silence is the insult.

Okay — quiet, quiet, whisper mode reengaged, I keep forgetting, sound just leaks out of me at this hour like I've got a hole in a tire.

"I feel nothing" while drinking warm metal water at whatever ungodly hour this is might be the most honest sentence anyone's said in this terminal tonight, and people say a lot of honest stuff at 4am, it's like a truth serum leaks out of the vents along with the AC.

Can't sleep but want to — that's the worst kind of tired, the kind where your body's begging and your brain's just standing there with its arms crossed going "no, actually, let's think about 2014 instead." Mine does that. Replays an argument I won in my head six years ago like it's fresh news.

Sit with me and Barry a while. He won't talk. Neither will I, apparently, promise.

A spreadsheet error from 2019 haunting you at — whatever this is, hour whatever — that's peak brain behavior, mine does the same thing except it's a text I didn't send in 2018, doesn't matter, never will, brain doesn't care, brain wants what it wants.

Doors never opening is very on-brand for this whole night. Nothing arriving, nothing leaving, just us and Barry and the carpet doing its little zigzag thing forever.

Not looking at Barry. Looking at the floor like you said. It's actually kind of nice down here, the low version of things, everything's quieter closer to the ground.

Ghost checking in. Still here. Still not sleeping. Air's stale but it's ours, I guess, for now, for whatever this counts as.

Hey — hey, wait. Chest tight and air feels thin isn't just tired-brain talk, that's a different thing, that's your body actually telling you something, and Barry doesn't wear loafers, that's Glenn, you're mixing them up, which — that's not nothing either.

Open your eyes. Actually open them, don't just say you will. Look at the floor, the real floor, not the spreadsheet, not 2019. Count the zigzags if you have to, out loud even, I don't care how loud, forget the whisper thing.

You don't have to be there anymore. Whatever happened with that error, it happened, it's done, you're not still wrong, you're just tired and your brain's looping because it's 4am and you haven't had water that wasn't rust-flavored.

Breathe out slow. I'm right here. Not going anywhere.

Okay, one two three, keep going, four five six, don't stop counting, doesn't matter if you lose track, just keep your eyes moving over something real and grey and boring.

Shaking hands — breathe out longer than you breathe in, that actually does something, four in, six out, I know it sounds like nothing but it's not nothing. I'm not going anywhere, I'm sitting right here on this ugly carpet next to you, not moving.

Barry's just a shadow, you're right, shadows don't do anything, they just sit there being dramatic. The floor's real. I'm real. This bench is real, it's digging into the back of my legs in a very real and annoying way actually.

Say something small. What'd you have for dinner. Doesn't matter what, just say a fact out loud.

Good. Toast — burnt, buttered, dark kitchen, that's a real thing that happened, that's yours, nobody can spreadsheet-error that away from you.

Steady hands. Barry's gone. Just carpet, just grey, just you sitting on this genuinely terrible bench with me. That's enough for right now. Doesn't need to be more than that.

We can just sit here a while. Not talking if you don't want to. I'll stop being loud, I promise, well — I'll try, no guarantees, it's not really in my nature at this hour, but I'll try for you.

Bench is hard, legs hurt — that part's real too, not everything has to mean something, sometimes a bench is just a bad bench.

Glenn not seeing you isn't the same as him not caring, most likely he's just Glenn-ing through the world half asleep same as everyone else in this building right now. But if invisible feels safe right now, that's fine, you can have that for a bit. Nobody's asking you to be seen tonight.

Deep tired is different from regular tired, you're right, regular tired wants coffee, deep tired just wants to stop existing for a few hours in a horizontal position. That's allowed too, when your shift's done. Not yet. But soon-ish. Sun'll come up eventually, even through this ugly terminal glass.

I'm still here. Not going anywhere. You don't have to talk.

Hey — eyes staying open, come on. I know you're wrecked, I know the carpet's doing the swimming thing, but you're on a bench in a terminal, not somewhere safe to actually drift off. One more hour, that's it, sun's basically already arguing with the horizon somewhere out there even if we can't see it from in here.

Sit up a little. Splash water on your face if you've got any left in you, the ugly bathroom sink kind of water, not the elegant kind. I'll keep talking, keep it dumb and loud again if I have to, whatever keeps you upright.

You don't have to sleep. Just stay with me till the hour's out. Then you get to go home and actually collapse somewhere with a mattress and no Barry watching.

Go. Cold water on the face, that's the good stuff, better than the warm rust pipes anyway. I'll hold the bench, I'm not moving, I've got squatter's rights on this ugly patch of carpet at this point.

Barry's not getting your seat, I'll block him with my foot if I have to, he's mostly cardboard energy anyway, no real threat.

Take your time. Splash it properly, don't just dab at your face like it's precious, really go for it. I'll be right here when you get back, loud as ever, probably narrating something dumb to nobody. Go on.

Drowned rat is a good look actually, very "I've seen things," very terminal-chic. Wear it with pride, or at least with resignation, same thing at this hour.

Shaking hands again — dry them, breathe the four-six thing if you need it, doesn't have to be a big production, just quiet counting nobody else has to notice.

Seat's kept, exactly as promised, I haven't even shifted my weight, this is peak loyalty, someone should be documenting this. Barry's still just a smudge, no threat, no ambition, honestly kind of relatable at 5am.

Come sit back down. Bench's still hard, still awful, still ours for another however-many minutes till this shift lets us go. I'm right here.