Roger Levis was happy. 

He pulled back on the crystal doorknob, braced for the familiar resounding bell, and sat himself down. 

The Halloway Diner was in greater disarray than usual that Tuesday. Roger hadn’t been since the Wednesday prior and was struck with the uncharacteristic commotion. Several cycling repairmen busied themselves on the tornout restroom wall, sewage leaking with the speed of molasses, the olfactory magnitude of false perfume. A delegation of angry stockbrokers argued loudly in the vicinity, clearly without hope for resolution. Startling muzak blared, the bell incessantly rang, and waiters and waitresses scurried arbitrarily.

Roger observed all this and took little note. Scrutinising the plastic menu, he pretended to search for a choice, knowing full well he would order what he always ordered. Eventually he set the directory aside and cleansed his inordinately moist palms. The doctor’s salve treatment was clearly in vain, to Roger’s chagrin. 

“What’ll it be?” Terry Halloway presented himself, ill-fitting business attire suffocating his skin, constraining the movements of his tall and tired figure. His cataracts glared down on Roger in familiar fashion. 

“Pleasure, Terry. I'll have the usual.” Roger said so with great cordiality and affection, to which Terry gave an angry glare despite the returned smile.

“Oh, yes, certainly, the usual for you, sire,” Terry replied abruptly, his dramatic, sarcastic tone flying past Roger, who set back to scouring the menu. Then, putting his face much closer to Roger’s, asked, “You think I see any more than a bunch of greedy eyes out of you people? You think I know what the hell a ‘the usual’ is?” His voice was smooth, but a flame had been kindled in his throat. 

“Well not at all, Terry, I just figure I’m here a fair amount and I know the staff’s names and-”

“There’s four of us and hundreds of moping customers. You know I went to New Thurstand University for six years? Got my Master’s in Business. But you can’t do jack with that without capital. So I’m stuck in this quagmire with presumptuous sheep like you. I never wanted that. Jesus!” Terry’s voice, while contained, somehow triumphed over the background bustle. He spun about and with irreconcilable irritation set off for beyond the counter. Roger did not order his eggs and oatmeal. 

Roger was rather perturbed with the encounter, and silently gave himself innumerous insults over his social ineptitude, wondering how ever he could be happy and yet as negligent. Eventually, after further reviewing the meaningless words on the menu, he recovered and pulled out a legal pad from his fraying grey satchel. A pen apparated and he turned his thoughts to the more pertinent tasks ahead. Sipping his self-served, straight black coffee, Roger wrote. 

“Salutations, and warm greetings, Seneca!” He smiled with the line. There was no Seneca and, he remarked solemnly, likely wouldn’t be. But he preferred to address his thoughts to someone, if but fictitious.

“I would anticipate and appreciate your attention in the following account, as you surely would unto the reverse. Our search for the optimal fuel has achieved a new level of offence. Work has become increasingly laborious and physically intricate, although (I must say to avoid perversions of cynicism), not excessively. Allie has been most sufficient in measurement and experiment design, leading the present machination of our, I suspect, fruitless endeavour. Sans computational devices, and with great financial deficit, we are want of ease in controlling the monstrosity. The great gears shift intermittently, abrupt lines of energy apparate and then disintegrate in convulsion. Allie has an excellent understanding of the bereft hand of our child, to say it crudely, yet I am repeatedly shocked and nicked in hurrying our progress. I am concerned that if the fundamental nature of our monotony achieves some sort of resolution, its advanced uses will be easily dwarfed in terms of complexity interests by competing teams; indeed, the supreme fuel type for the Grant must have enough detail for actual use by astronomers. Even then, as I have said, I am uncertain about such a resolution ever occurring. Perhaps, if you concur, dear Seneca, I had better begin looking for a new job.”

Roger’s right hand grew tired swiftly, secreting in earnest, and so he terminated his missive. The stockbrokers in a disgruntled, unsatisfied silence stormed out of the door into the frigid weather. A family of young and defeated persons entered and sleepily took seats. Roger sipped his coffee. Diana Halloway began to inconsistently protrude her head from the manager’s office and bark at the waiters to get back to work, this time to serve the family. 

With this Roger reflected. Of course he was happy, since he did not deal with the austere incompetence of subordinates, the likes of which would make him undoubtedly discontent, as he could tell with Diana. But a nagging voice tugged at the crown of his cranium, discomforting him and leading him to shift in his seat. Perhaps others of greater, or at least greater perceived, anguish did not negate another’s despite its being lesser. Oh, woe indeed, you poor Roger. Distress commanded you, compensation of incompetence oppressed you- but no, he must be happy! How else could have whistled and smiled on the drive in? Ah, fool, but that was a plaster smile, nothing mo-

“Morning there, Rog,” erupted a shrill, immediate voice. Roger glanced up at the impeding siren, broken suddenly from those thoughts that had become all the more common. There she was, Allie Rothsman, a red plaid shirt beneath her frizzy, bouncing yellow hair. She slid in across the booth and procured numerous files from her own bag. 

“Heya Allie,” Roger said pleasantly. When she did not reply, instead glossing over some occasional leaflet diagram, he added, “You know I’m off till eight, right? I’ve no problem coming in early, but-”.

“I think I did it,” Allie interjected. She looked up now, a thin grin across her tight face. Thin beads of sweat, frozen from her commute, lined her face. She must have been working early. 

“Er, wonderful. What exactly?”

“Well the fuel of course!” Allie chuckled. It did not feel particularly comedic to Roger. “I found just the right thing. Ion ejection with compressed hydrogen fusion, ratio set up just right. And, I mean, I got it, I got 34.98 seconds.” Roger re-erected his posture, suddenly impressed and awakened from his morning stupor. He knew that each test typically left a +/-0.04 second margin of error, such that the Grant’s 35 second limit might at some point be exceeded, but such a milestone was enticing nonetheless. Though Roger’s face showed his startled excitement, his speech was on the contrary.

“But that uses two engines,” said Roger. “Fusion and ejection are entirely different mediums. I thought I advised you on unipowered devices. You read my paper, right?”

A polite man typically, his insecurity in his incompetence began to gradually seep into his diction. Roger was then about thirty-two years old and had been want of education for what felt as long. That singular paper, substantiated by no one, published by an unread local magazine, criticised by anyone he paid to even glance at, that paper was Roger’s only potential legacy. And that it should be dismissed by his employer when it was most necessary, when of all things he came to work on this grant for propelling some sort of Martian voyage, gave him the greatest resolution of incompetence. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Allie said dismissively. “I have more pressing issues to attend to. I’m sure it’s fine, Roger, but even if you’re right, two distinct fuel types in tandem did the trick, so we’d better stick with it.” Roger grimaced at a rising feeling of anger and, oddly, jealousy, in that Allie felt righteous enough to ignore his advice. “Anyway, I wanted to stop by and let you know to start filling out the grant application immediately. Those buffoons that you call ‘competitors’ apparently haven’t even started. This could be big, buddy.” And with that, she slid out of the booth, set down Roger’s coffee (which she had of course been sipping) and merrily strolled away. 

Off in the distance, Terry watched Roger’s unusual appearance of unhappiness with a twinge of pity. 

—

At 8:03 AM, struggling with the sharp wind he had grown up in and never gained acquaintance with, Roger pulled into the commercial building parking lot. Tall, ancient pines dug their feet into the pavement of the outside sidewalk, great limbs encapsulating the outer directory. Roger hurried into the building with his satchel, refilled with reference books and past reports, up the stairs, and into 206. Rothsman Laboratory, a defunct and forgotten space of academia and research expansion, loomed anticlimactically. Roger entered and set to work. 

At least there would be less physical exertion today. Roger smiled, and it hurt his cheeks. Sweaty palms loosely gripping a dull pencil, he went to work drafting the application. At 8:23, murmuring to herself and occasionally chuckling, Allie barged in. She launched off to the hidden design room and sounds of electricity, measurements, and volatile fluids leaked to Roger’s ears. He frowned once more. It might once have been needlessly physical, but at least he wasn’t a desk jockey as he was now. 

Eventually, about mid afternoon and with a nearly disfigured wrist, Roger ate the lunch he had packed. The delectable nutrients he had packed consisted solely of leftover, cold oatmeal and one bruised apple. Roger savoured it under the pale, numbing fluorescence while Allie set off to celebratory lunching. 

“That’s what it is,” Roger hesitantly remarked. “Her success.” 

The fact was that Roger had been crucial to the project. After completing his BA in Astrophysics, in need of some easy income, he had accepted employment at this hub of lunacy, never enthusiastic nor expecting much of the project, but noting the sufficient pay. And then it became an extension of himself, never much thinking of anything else than fuel, aware that Allie more or less owned all of the credit but taken indeed to the prospect of success. Roger’s ideas were never to the brilliant extent that were Allie’s, and were ruthlessly torn down, but they truly had provoked important efficiency measures, processes of elimination, and the like. 

“But in the end, it will be her name alone.” It was deserved. She spent countless nights in this musty, claustrophobic cabinet of a lab, and he succumbed to the temptation of sleep. She invented; he inspired. And that fact did not feel good. Nor indeed was it pleasant to continue such discontented reflections. 

“But I’m happy! Fine and dandy, dandy and fine.” He said it with a dramatic drawl in the hopes that he might feel something humorous or innocent, but indeed it failed. He set back to checking boxes and preparing supplications.

—

At Halloway Diner, getting back onto his shift after an unsatisfactory smoke break, Terry negligently poured coffee for a new group of diners. The steaming charcoal plasma danced out of the crude china as Allie and two men negotiated; if this was her celebration, a dreary one it was.

“I have the design,” Allie asserted. “I’ve verified it. It succeeded, and we all know that your’s is running out of time. My employee is likely mailing the application as we speak.” Unlike many, Allie never ceased conversation for another nearby. Terry noted her frail and yet triumphant confidence. The two men just smiled at each other.

“We find it admirable, of course,” said the older, shorter man, “the progress you’ve made with the, well, little budget you no doubt have.”

“But,” jumped in the younger, taller man, “we also know, as well as you, dear Allie, that you lack the grant’s requisite infrastructure.” Terry departed, perturbed with men’s condescension.

“Doesn’t negate your insufficient design,” she replied, to which the two men frowned. 

“True.”

“True.”

“So we are at an impasse. You called this meeting of competitors.” The short man.

“How do you propose we proceed?” The younger man, still unsmiling. 

Allie pondered briefly. She had sent the request to Lincoln & Tanson Metro Research three days prior, the group getting back with all haste, and yet she was unsure as to the resolution she wished to achieve. She required an ion ejector, just so that the feds in the grant committee could observe it in action. L&TM Research needed the optimal fuel apparatus. 

“You have something I need, and lack that which I possess. Simple as that.” Her voice solidified. “Perhaps an agreement can be made.”

Both men simultaneously leaned forward. Their uneducated, oily suits appeared a near mockery of corporate businessmen. “These items being?” This time the elder. 

Allie explained the situation, keeping as ambiguous as possible about the exact parameters of her design. She realised that disclosing her choice of fusion and ion ejection would give her opponents some clue, should they decide not to cooperate, but then keeping undisclosed the ratios of each and the method of fusion, as well as the other intricacies she could not be bothered to immediately remember, would leave these leeches unaided. Allie had to tow her own party line, as she had done ever since founding Rothsman Laboratory; she would not let a slip of the tongue interfere. 

“I’ll try to be courteous, but no other word describes your corporation better than does ‘bureaucratic.’ My accomplishment compensates for that drawback. We work together, I use your funding, you get a cut of the grant money and a little less recognition than I.” Allie leaned back and gazed out of the window, absentmindedly stirring the green tea she had ordered and never consumed. She was vaguely aware that the two men were hurriedly conferring with one another.

Slowly the two men began to speak. “Once you prove your results to us, L&TM is prepared to make a deal.” 

“L&TM will wire you as much as is necessary for managing the project and reaching the grant’s requirements, and will immediately fax over all of our research.”

Allie looked back, unsure as to who said what. “And what in return?”

“Acknowledgment and a contractual sharing of grant funds.”

“Our lawyers will reach out with the percentages and whatever papers are necessary.”

Allie smiled. This might work after all. She called Terry over, who came begrudgingly from the clientele he was already serving, and ordered another green tea. The current one had gone cold.

“In terms of acknowledgement?” she asked as Terry walked the cup she already had to the microwave.

“L&TM Research’s name on all of the applications and patents you may generate. The lead scientists may wish their respective names also included.” The tall, younger man resisted the tug of a smile equal to Allie’s. His superiors would be pleased. 

“Remember that we’re more interested in our posterity than in our income. You certainly realise that we have enough of it.” The elder man smiled for a separate reason than his associate. He just liked the thought of money. “Therefore it will only be either your name or Rothsman Laboratory on the aforementioned documents.”

“Our superiors were very clear on that part,” added the other, tempted to say, “and nothing else,” although he did not.

This very much struck Allie, being one of the few contingencies on which she would unhappily give way. As long as she or the Lab was given credit, she was fine, but she had been wishing to reward Roger for his loyalty and moderately sufficient mind with the credit she thought he very much deserved. She knew, and knew that he knew, that her effort had been tremendous and much greater than his, and that she exhibited a conscience of unparalleled dedication and creativity; yet the extents of his efforts and conscience could not be denied. He had also seemed negligibly discontent with work lately, and she would be loath to not alleviate such an inhibition. 

But if the success of this project relied on Roger’s being excluded, she might be able to live with that. Might.

“Agreed. I look forward to communicating with your lawyers.” And with that, she left the two slimy men with the bill and an unsipped, reheated cup of green tea.

—

This was odd. 

Roger scrutinised the thought as he tinkered with the machine. Allie had come back at an appreciably late hour, reprimanded his not going home and resting, and then demanded the application with all urgency. Something within her forced, subtly anxious face indicated some new revelation or development in this story that was hers, but she would not explain it, and he would not ask. He readily turned over the half-completed papers without giving her an update, Allie not asking for it and hurrying off with a guilty stride. 

But Roger was sure it was no concern. He went back to caressing the temperamental machine with a rag, resetting some of the plugs to their defaults, and eliminating the engine. He had already listed his name on the application, after Allie’s, of course (an order for which she had persistently advocated); no matter the result, his work could be referenced with that one mark of a name.

Unless she erased it. 

But that was unlikely. Roger lightly touched the cavernous hollow in which Allie had declared the ion-ejector to live. She had been stuck with computer simulations and a disgustingly expensive, rarely available test model since beginning this project with him, what, over a decade ago now. The last use of the test model, in which she reportedly achieved the successful run, had bled their current funds to deplorable depressions. Without the Grant money Rothsman Laboratories would surely crumble. He recalled Seneca; perhaps he should actually follow his own advice. 

When Roger had nearly finished his tasks, his long workday terminated with the defaulting of the machine’s settings, the exhaustion and fatigue of the workday abruptly and suddenly caught up to his health. Such a sobering phenomenon had become so reliable it was nearly friendlike; always at this time, continuing to labour past the ten o’clock threshold his body so adamantly required, he would crumble over his own weight. Roger believed as a result of this that the human being possessed some sort of limited quantity of tolerance, and that such a commodity for himself was in great amounts but to astonishingly low valence. As such the weight of a single day could and did build up and he would adequately deal with it, until with the advent of their depletion the whole of his exhaustion would emit itself. 

So he crumbled. His legs buckled, his arms drooped, and Roger felt a familiar and so incredibly gravitational compulsion to fall asleep. But he would not. Roger exhaled long, sat defiantly, and pondered his next move. When this happened, as it usually did, he would manage to drive himself home- all the while endangering every pedestrian or other vehicle operator in an alarming vicinity-, rip open the door, and collapse into sleep. He needed to do so immediately, or the fright would consume his soul, shred his dignity, and negate his triumphs. 

At that precise moment, however, Roger decided to stand up with the use of a swinging bar above his forehead. He grasped for it, pulled himself up, yanked the bar down, and more or less entirely inebriated the machine. Allie barged in, limp leafs of wet ink hanging in her slender palms.

“What the hell did you do?” she demanded, rushing past him to man the controls. 

“Pulled the bar.”

“The red one?”

Roger glanced at the dangling rod of metal, which was in fact of a frayed crimson hue. “Yep.”

“The red one I told you never to interact with, never to even clean?” The machine hadn’t seemed to do much of anything in response to his activities, although Allie certainly sensed the issue the second it occurred, but now a sudden humming began to commence in the heart of the dreadful creature. Allie began to furiously extract wire threads from a control unit. 

Roger glanced again. “That’s the one. I very much apologise, Allie, I- well, do you remember my telling you of my wearisome affliction?” 

“Go home, Roger. We’ll talk in the morning.” He readily concurred. “Machine probably won’t be operational until Thursday. Well done, Roger. Now L&TM- er, the Grant Committee- won’t get their proof on time.” Roger was already out the door. 

—

Roger collapsed in his apartment. Outside the perpetual freeze blew, incarcerating his beard stubble to icicles. The couch on which he lay exhibited little insulation, yet he imagined himself warmer. The all too large boots he wore kicked back the propped-open door. 

Face nestled in the unevenly stuffed, lacklustre cushions, he murmured, “I am happy.”

He was of course not happy, if the reader has any inkling of Roger’s rather insufficient situation. Indeed by Roger’s fault the scientific progress of Rothsman Laboratory would be halted. Somehow Allie could predict when that churning beast required relubrication or readjustment, and Roger found such an ability offensive. She would be loath ever to teach Roger to the indications and procedures, yet by such uneducation Roger felt the wrath of his superior, and Allie the inabilities of her employee. 

But, as he had done in the diner just that morning, that morning which felt so far away (though not any farther than the morning to every other evening), he remembered he was happy. He crawled his sallow body to lay supine upon the couch. The apartment’s power had failed again. Swirling corpuscles of dust descended from the battery-powered fan. Vague mountainous appliances hid in Roger’s peripheries. He decided he would not eat dinner, but readily succumb to slumber. “For,” he thought dreamily, “sleep is a precious import, and time a limited and ambiguous commodity.” So he shut his eyes.

—

On the afternoon of Thursday a bright yellow manilla envelope arrived at the Department of Federal Grants. The receptionist read the return address as Rothsman Laboratory. That was a bit unusual. Everyone at the Department knew this Mars fuel grant as well as one does a racehorse one has bet on- with anticipation and great scrutiny. The grant had come out sixty-six years ago, and only, what, about ten years ago did anyone accept work on it; Rothsman Laboratory and L&TM Research were the only vaguely promising candidates, every other competitor joining the race only offhandedly. The receptionist’s curiosity was piqued. He disregarded the other letters and ran this one up to the main board with great anxiety. 

By noon the Board of Grants on Scientific Research and Development had convened in whole. Most served in congruence with every other board; only two or three in attendance had any conviction to the sciences, and about as many understood the magnitude of this assembly. An elderly woman with a fake leather jacket sat in the centre of the group, a retired professor to her left, an assistant to her right, the latter two in official Department clothing. The three sat conversing, presumably about the application, but in fact about planning for the birthday of a coworker they didn’t particularly like. Eventually they unsealed the letter, and with initial silence the trio read.

“That’s not possible.”

“She writes like it was obvious.”

“The grant money isn’t enough for something like this.” This comment provoked some frowns from the more cost-conscious attendees. 

“But she did it. By herself, too, it looks, with some help from…”

“Yeah, L&TM. Who'da thunk it, huh? The only two competent competitors joining forces.”

They read some more. The mass of disinterested parties around and below them only vaguely listened in but mostly thought about how they would use their evenings. 

“Sent and finished just this morning.”

“And somehow below 35 seconds.”

“What’s the importance of that?”

“I don’t think anyone remembers.”

“I sure don’t.”

After more indiscreet comments, a gargantuan hammer was extracted from a nearby drawer. On it the word “APPROVED” was ingrained backwards and upside-down. The assistant handed the elder an ink pad, into which she injected the great tool, and thrust it onto the application with a terrific, resounding clang. It was over. Such an achievement meant victory to the project, or at least victory to this particular barrier. Everyone, including Allie, Roger, the Board, and of course Lincoln & Tanson Metro Research, was entirely conscious of the likelihood that the development of the fuel would aid in going to Mars, in that it was exceptionally unlikely. Arguments would ensue, issues discovered before even the construction of a vessel could begin. 

But it was unequivocally an important step. 

—

The incompetence and insecurity clung to Roger through Wednesday and Thursday, seeped into the brittle coffee grains of his cups at Halloway Diner, collapsed his posture, infected every molecule he exhaled. He chalked it up to the tired incident two days afore, but was vaguely aware that it might in some way be attributed to acts of exclusion. Roger begrudgingly thought it over. Allie had received the ion ejector from some source she would not disclose, had given him paid leave for a while, and, when she reluctantly stopped into the diner, had announced that the application had been completed and sent. It gave him an uneasy and rather unhappy feeling, though to the latter adjective he would not admit.

Terry strode to Roger’s table. The commotion had ceased from its state on Tuesday, at least tentatively. The bathroom was still broke, but another was functional; the muzak had been quieted; the excited clientele had been reduced to a stagnant stream of courteous consumers. Terry was pleased with it, but was as irritable as usual. He recalled the argument with Roger two days prior. In truth Terry did know Roger somewhat well, but still found Roger’s folly proper for his discontent. But then it might be considered his folly as well. Perhaps an apology or at least a shift in temperance was in order, which to Terry meant less immediate disdain and a somewhat motivated amiability. 

“Anything you’d like, Roger?” Roger continued to look into his palms, where they lay next to his hips. 

“Eggs and oatmeal, type unspecified?” 

With a start, Roger said, “Oh, yes, Terry, thanks. I’ll take- no, yes, that will do. Thanks.” He was positively flummoxed, not by Terry, but by this sudden removal from the trance of reflections on impotence into which he had very deeply fallen. It was as if he had been forced from slumber. Terry walked off, considering the confusion an outburst, and his previous sympathy unwarranted. Roger shook his head. He was not feeling alright. Writing occasionally helped, he remembered, so he pulled out the legal pad from his satchel, crumbled from falling asleep on the soft bag the night prior, and began to write once more.

“Salutations, and less warm greetings than typical, Seneca.

“I shall leave the pleasantries for later, and delve swiftly into that which currently afflicts me. I have found emotions and contemplations of ineptitude prolific in almost every aspect of my thought and being. In sleep, in waking, in communication, in occasional writings, even in composing my meals, I am lost. Much of this stems from the fact that I am wholly concerned and rather unnerved with the potential for my contributions to the fuel project to be forgotten, excised, eliminated, unread, or otherwise destroyed. Sure, Allie is, to use a pun-like term, my ally; we have worked together for a long time, she trusts me, and I suppose I must trust her. But then recognition is an invaluable thing, is it not, Seneca? We humans roam this Earth, much of us evolved entirely from issues of sustenance and survival, our only current fight for existence intensely concentrated upon acceptance. Perhaps this derives from ancestral times, in which a lack of material to offer, whether in mind, in ability, or in access to resources, would lead to one’s immediate exclusion and, likely, demise. So this persists while other ancestral issues diminish, and Allie may be so starved for such that she looks upon me as easily-squashable competition. 

“I confess I succumb to it too. I will not deny this, except maybe in speech to others (I say, as though I am presently speaking with a real person and will not eventually discard this document). So what is there to do? Allie is confident in the project’s success, and if I am given credit, then perhaps worrying is in vain. But then, no, I believe it touches on a more intrinsic and sincere problem. Allie supersedes my intelligence in every manner of speaking, and surely in time I may develop myself to a position even greater than hers, but as yet I have not the time to do so, all of my memory simultaneously confined to a time in which I have not. In college I undoubtedly pressured myself and laboured hard, but my parents- oh, how I dread bringing them up, even with their passing- were unpleased. My psyche was left unsatisfied and disappointed, such a disposition to self continuing until the present, subtly but consistently exacerbating its end. Allie brings the discrepancy to full saturation. I now realise it, however, and must give it its own disposition. Maybe I will come to terms with it, either in negating its being or in a reluctant act of acceptance. I am not enough; but I am happy. I think I am happy. Maybe I am not happy.

“Be well, Seneca.”

Roger tore the paper from the pad and shoved into his satchel. He noticed a dish of eggs and a bowl of oatmeal sitting directly ahead, placed during his incapacitative writing. His frail, sallow figure reclined on the torn polyester booth, adopting the same position as before Terry awakened him. 

“I am not enough.”

—

Allie with her characteristic haste exploded into Rothsman Laboratory. Roger’s face was plastered against a few graphs he had considered potentially of scientific interest (they were not), a thin dribble of drool extending past his lips and desecrating his work. It took his senses, encumbered by dreams, a number of seconds to process the external tumult. Eventually Roger shot up, whipping the drool to the wall ahead of the desk next to the door. 

“We did it, Roger,” Allie declared with an odd hollowness and even odder use of the term “we”. Her excitement waned, as if she might instead delicately open the next door she came upon. She held the same manilla envelope she had sent prior, as well as an official and already opened government communique. “We got the grant.”

Roger stood. A sudden and confused smile rose to his face. “We did it? Really? I- I knew you got the right fuel, I trusted that, of course, but, Jesus, I didn’t think it would all come toge-”

“I need you to go home, Roger.” Allie did not join in with a smile. Roger assumed it was because she had no doubt been celebrating already, but was regardless caught off guard. The sudden release of anxiety over all he had told Seneca came crashing back upon his shoulders. 

“Pardon?”

“Well, um, we finished. We did it, Roger.” Allie, for the first time since Roger had known her for an entire decade, stammered. True, her speech was rather imperfect, dotted with wildly absurd tangents that somehow vaguely connected to the topic at hand, but always legato. Yet when it came to this two-sentence communication Allie faltered.

“No, yes, I understand, Allie,” said Roger with uncertainty, sitting back down on the chair. “But there’s still work to do. The Feds’ll be down here to look at the machine, verify the accuracy. We’ll probably be busier than ever.”

“Roger.”

“Allie?”

“I need you to go home.” The trepidation and disappointment in her face swam through the air and dimmed the lights. 

“Alright. We’ll start in the morning, then. Well done, Allie, proud to be working with you.” With this Roger rose, sensing the urgency and solemnity with which Allie had spoken. He attempted a handshake, which Allie noticed but ignored. She walked past him to the machine room and, hidden from the colleague and friend she had defamed, put her head in her hands, anxious for whatever came next, remorseful only of the last step she had taken. 

Roger would see the success in the news tomorrow, at least locally. In all of the papers only foreign and national issues were presented, such that this major and sudden achievement might be overlooked by the press, although eventually its magnitude would be seen. There might even be a few celebrations, some appreciation from the collaborative work on the project. But then Roger would notice his name excised. His redundant, unfounded superstitions would be proven, Allie’s treason with the enemy publicised, and Roger suddenly left to oblivion and misremembrance.

The above awareness, of course, fully occurred that Friday at Halloway Diner. Terry was absent from and the rest of the waiters in a conspicuously happier mood. Some had heard of the news and were proud that New Thurstand would finally have some claim to fame, their pleasure obvious in the occasional pleasantries they exchanged, the less irritating comments they gave others. Roger was still unaware, deciding to sleep in longer than usual, Allie having given him paid leave “for the week as, er, congratulation.”

Roger began to read a discarded newspaper to make sure he had been publicised. He began with a relaxed nonchalance; then concern; and then Roger, chugging his black coffee, began to grind his winter boots into the lacquer booth, clenching his newspaper with bloodless fingers. Sludge from the continuing dreary weather adhered to the floor. His eyes raced. No. It wasn’t there. Department of Federal Grants gave an address. Rothsman Lab and Lincoln & Tanson Metro Research credited. Allie Rothsman and innumerous L&TM scientists named. 

But no Roger Levis. 

Furiously, somehow terrified with the possibility that to the collective human memory the last ten years of his life would be in vain, threw himself out of the booth, scurrying in comical fashion to the newspaper boxes outside the Diner. The frigid gusts and biting snowflakes cut into his T-shirt-clad middle as he yanked back the handles and extracted the bundles. Neglecting the dangerously low temperatures he continued the process until he had five juries of remembrance in his possession.

Back in his seat, with the diners parallel to him subtly relocating, Roger unfurled each paper. Two were national; those he set, or rather threw, aside. The other three he read fervently. Each had some article about the achievement; one small piece, one headliner, one in the opinion section. Scanning, he searched, but-

But alas, there was no Roger. 

He scanned and reread, hurriedly consuming entire passages until all three papers were sweaty parchment husks. Yet there was not for a second the name Roger Levis. Furiously he kept scanning each, worry crushing his temples and toppling his muscles, swapping page out with page and-

And he stopped reading. 

By that point there were unimaginable tears flowing from his face, and a catch in his throat began to fester. Small whimpering cries like that of a sick and dying animal escaped his lips, muffled. The lachrymal obscured his vision, fogged his glasses, wetted his shirt, and left him a snivelling wreck of a man. At that moment Terry returned to the diner and noticed Roger. In fact Terry was a rather empathetic person, although still very impolite and volatile (as we have seen with his explosion in front of Roger, which was later regretted), and immediately he was compelled to consult with this pitiful customer.

“Damn it, Roger, what’s gotten into you?” to which Roger did not reply. Terry slid in across the booth from him. 

“Roger!” 

The incompetent abruptly looked upwards, mouth agape, still sobbing. “What the hell’s wrong?” Slowly Roger swallowed, roughly slid his eyes over his napkin, and stood up. 

“Betrayal, Terry, I- I’ve been betrayed and forgotten.” Roger’s eyes glowered down on Terry with the same intensity as Terry once had. All was wrong. So utterly wrong. Snagging his keys Roger barrelled past Diana Halloway, who observed him with confusion as well as disdain for obstructing her customers, and proceeded to yank open his car door, climb inside, and collapse once more. New tears rose to replace the old, and he left the ignition inactive as he cowered still in the freezing vehicle. 

—

About a week passed by. Roger was terminated from the Lab without warning nor word from Allie, a move expected and nonetheless scathing. The newspapers stopped running interviews and articles with the fuel achievement, Allie began deliberating a separate endeavour for Rothsman Laboratory, L&TM danced with the grant money their lawyers squeezed out of Allie, and Roger was nowhere to be seen. The frigid weather waned slightly, with only barely tolerable temperatures and moderately dulled snowflake shrapnel, and most of New Thurstand became more active with the small change. 

Allie was still in a stage of pure disarray, somewhat related to the greed of L&TM, somewhat resolved with the potential for a new project, but mostly driven by the thought of Roger. She had had no contact with her former friend since telling him to go home, but had heard from some at the Diner that he had been seen sobbing, coming in only for take-out coffee, his clothes unchanged and his whole demeanour hurt. 

Allie decided she would visit him, if he would have her. Using the small grant allotment she had retained, she compiled an extensive severance package, filled with several months’ worth of wage, brilliant recommendation letters, and documents ensuring company healthcare and insurance payment for the next full year, the latter still out of Allie’s own pocket. Driving to the decrepit little apartment complex in which Roger resided, she reflected how odd this action was. She pulled into the little row of invisible parking lines and hurried to find the elevator. She understood and was actually encouraged by the condescending choice of words she used, and acknowledged how much of a prick that made her appear to others, but knew also deep down that she felt on the same level as others. Her intellect was high, of course, her drive incredible, her ambition ridiculous, but truly she felt as humble as the next guy, just inclined towards an outward perception of dominance. Yet, she thought as she reached Floor Four, she was now to go and tear down the entirety of that false coating of competence by admitting her fault and attempting-

Well, what was she attempting? To gain forgiveness? To reassure Roger? Only to put this anxiety out of her head, never really caring about this Roger fellow but just the guilt he provided her? She was, for the first time in a very long period of time, unsure as to what motivated her. She rapped on the door with an official, resounding ratta-tat-tat. Whatever it was, it must be related in some way to sympathy. 

The sound of a trashy reality-television show exuded the plain white door of 425 Turpis Way as a solemn figure pulled it back. The smell of an unused shower and uninteresting delivery food infected Allie’s nostrils. The figure’s eyes shrunk as the hallway lights dug into his retinas. And he scowled. 

“Allie,” he asserted with false integrity. 

“Roger,” Allie replied. “It’s really wonderful to see you, especially since, um, parting ways with you in rather poor taste. I’m really- well, I can apologise later. Can I come in?” Roger only scowled more. 

“Do you dare,” he spat at her, “intrude upon my last fragile home of sanctity? Do you dare further oppress me with your arrogance and narcissism? Do you dare taunt my insufficiencies when you have already slandered me without address, left me unemployed without communication, and gone to your winning Ivory Tower with wealth beyond compare?”

“Well, L&TM actually took a great amount of the grant money-”.

“And this!” Roger continued, opening the door wide and revealing the same soiled clothes he had nestled in at the Diner. “You betray me, treason me, with some other company whom you never advised me on, all for funding, all to discredit your company and lose your prize? For it is indeed your prize, is it not? Surely I have contributed nothing to this project!” And he slammed the door upon Allie’s foot, which she had wedged in with expectation that he might react like this. Her sad face turned to his. 

“Would you let me speak with you, for a moment, please?” 

“Allie, I swear, I- I- no, I don’t-,” exclaimed Roger, who began to cry again, before moving off to the same uneven couch as before, placing his head in his arms as the televised rubbish continued to blare. Allie took the open door as a subconscious welcome to Roger’s abode, and she stepped through it, out of the cold of the open-air hallway and towards a small stool opposite the weeper. 

“Listen, Rog,” she began. “There’s not much I can say to save my own skin. I was just thinking about this, too, as I drove over here, just how much I’m gonna have to lose face. I deliberately stripped you of your recognition, and I recognise that- but before you think I’m just here to add insult to injury [which Roger was beginning to very much believe], I should say that above all I’m- well, I’m sorry, and I apologise.”

Roger looked at her with confusion, with stupefaction, with a mixture of hatred and amazement, raising his head and looking dead in her eyes. He used his universal remote to turn off the television and turn on the lights. Allie, after a pause, continued. 

“And listen, I know that doesn’t change jack. I could apologise for years and years and yet I’d never be able to reverse the defamation I’ve given you. But maybe it’s a start?” Roger gave a slow nod. “There was more to it than greed, I’ll tell you that much, though; it was a matter of winning the grant, and if I had the option I would’ve given you all of the credit you deserved. Obviously it was really my project, and I’m pretty sure I’ve worked more and for longer than you, but nonetheless this project couldn’t have come together as well as it did without you. It was a logistical matter, and I should’ve fought to keep your name in the papers, but I think either way my hands were tied.”

“Well, do tell, Allie,” said Roger, now curious and wiping his snot and tears off with his rumpled clothing. He of course held much suspicion against her, but there was something to the sincerity in her eyes and tone that made him inclined to at least listen. 

So Allie did, explaining with earnest and length the meeting, how she required L&TM's funding, how deceitful and how adamant for attention they were. She lamented her decision, how she did not attempt to help out Roger, how she was now here to bring a severance package and an apology. The whole explanation spanned but a few minutes, but everything Allie meant to say she said, and it was all heard by Roger. When she finished, she handed over several bright red, stapled-together files, and stood to exit Roger’s apartment. When she was at the still-opened door, however, Roger stood.

“I- no, come back, Allie, sit here.” His voice was tired, but with the sort of strain one gets when interested in something after a long period of mental stagnance. Allie followed his direction. 

“So this really wasn’t your choice?”

“Well- I had to agree to it, but no, I think L&TM was dictating the negotiation.”

“Ah.” The two stared at each other. Eventually Roger continued. “Well, if that’s the case, then all I can reasonably do is forgive you, seeing as you obviously didn’t act with malice. But the fact is, and you keep saying this, you could have fought for me. I mean, the last ten years officially mean nothing. I may have contributed to something wonderful, and I’m glad, but to not another soul does that matter. And sure, the perception of other people with less experience than I have is worthless, ultimately, but only a fool would deny that such a perception matters to them.”

“Yeah,” Allie sighed. She had vaguely hoped that acknowledging how she might have tried to help him would merit an even more whole forgiveness, but he had the right to disperse that as he wished. “No, I could have, and should have, you’re right.”

“But,” Roger said without missing a beat, “I also don’t know if I really deserve that recognition in the first place. Listen, I worked really hard, and I studied hard beforehand, and like you’re saying none of this would have happened, at least this swiftly, without me- but the result of the project doesn’t substantiate any of my influence. Really, I know I’m inept. I’d like to go back to school, and I’m sure after that I’d be way ahead of my time, but at the end of the day I’m not worthy of esteem. You’re much brighter and ingenious than I; so perhaps it wasn’t deserved in the first place.” He sat down again, Allie following suit, and thought in silence for a minute. A draft slammed the door closed, to which neither of them gave a start. “Either way, though- not deserving credit and not getting it, or deserving credit and not getting it due to hoping to complete the project- I don’t think it’s your fault, Allie, especially with this severance. This is a hefty sum. Jesus, and these recommendations couldn’t be more lauding. I forgive you, if that means anything.”

Allie was somewhat confused with how easily his fragile mental state of but minutes ago was able to be restructured to a state of forgiving. Maybe he wasn’t an excellent scientist, but there was certainly something to this Roger. 

“Thanks much, Rog. You’ve- I mean, the guilt I’ve been feeling over this, God, I’m so glad you’d say that. I mostly came to make sure I did my duty as an employer sending someone off, but jeepers, that means exceptionally much to me. Thanks, and truly, I’ll do whatever to help you out with whatever comes next.”

The two shook hands, after which Roger chuckled and reprimanded his disgusting apartment and haphazard appearance. He went off to shower and pick up after handing Allie a bottle of some generic juice brand. Allie relaxed a bit on the couch, turned on the mind-numbing reality television show, and waited. 

—

That night Roger and Allie came to familiar terms with each other, cementing their relationship as more friendlike than the result of an occupation, dispelling any feelings of distaste and coming to their own reconciliation, especially to Roger’s situation. They stayed in 425 Turpis Way late into the night, talking about things of nothingness, laughing over the most solemn of matters. Allie made it clear that professionally she and Roger should keep distant (since otherwise in later projects, including Roger’s name would make its prior exclusion a logistical nightmare), but said that if he was alright with it she would spread his resume and name to some of the bigger corporations. Roger, of course, accepted, and Allie was true to her word. 

Several months went by after that pivotal encounter. The cold weather persisted but, near the early summer season, lost any of its hold and the evaporated snowfall left a rather humid but pleasant climate. Roger found himself in an esteemed development chair of a biochemistry laboratory in downtown Tanson Metro, further downhill from New Thurstand. It was not, as the name implied, Lincoln & Tanson Metro Research, but rather a larger and less rigorous research conglomerate known as Inopia Enterprises. He was content with the job, found his savings experiencing larger increases, his name better known, and his ultimate insufficiencies unheard of. 

By this time he had not spoken with Allie in several weeks, seeing as they mostly interacted when her recommendations came into the picture at Inopia Enterprises, or when they happened to stumble upon each other at the Diner. They remained on good terms, each going about their separate business. Allie began embarking on quantum entanglement papers, which permitted less direct experimentation on her part and more reliance on past experiments (she considered it a break). Roger had decided that he would attempt to subdue his feelings of inferiority with a latent return to the University, which had a policy of always readmitting past students (and with Roger’s position might even ask him to give a few talks). Eventually, with the company’s permission, he began his classes, doing well and finding much of his ignorance easily quenched, soon navigating his curricula with fluidity and continually being amazed with how much more confident he felt with his cranial faculties. His letters to Seneca continued but became more and more infrequent with each passing day without absurd quantities of anxiety. 

However, on a June day what felt aeons after the Rothsman Laboratory endeavour, still somehow chilled but without any remnant of snowfall and with an altogether kindly temperature, Roger came back to Seneca. He sat back at the diner whilst nursing his cappuccino (he had grown to prefer it over the rather unfulfilling taste of straight black coffee). Classes began at noon, and all of his Inopia Enterprises tasks had been easily completed. He and Allie had had a brief encounter just minutes earlier, having given each other a firm handshake, and Roger felt oddly at peace. He pulled out his dwindling legal pad from a subtly-blue replacement satchel and began to write. 

“Oh, Seneca; only now do I realise how odd is my tryst with you.

“You do not exist, and I can say this, for to no one is my derision actually sent. I write to you for I have no one else that will listen, and not a soul exists unto whom I would feel entirely content with my absolute candidacy. So I will be candid with you. 

“Inopia Enterprises is going well, as are my classes at New Thurstand University. Allie and I are on amicable terms, I am feeling healthier, and my mind is altogether much more whole. I have written, as you must remember, rather superfluously (to use a superfluous term) about my feelings of inferiority and my acknowledgement and lament over an inalterable affliction with incompetence. However, with the lifestyle and employment changes of latter months, I have realised that such concerns have effectively disintegrated, and I now know my professional capacities have been increased. But allow me to backtrack on the latter; I think it more reasonable that my professional capacities have not been altered in the slightest, but that they have remained as present since I first left university, and that only now I have begun to fill such capacities with, perhaps, ability. For with my scientific interests I now feel much more able, although I am rather complacent and inactive at Inopia Industries. Perhaps when I am satisfied with my learning, or am offered an opportunity to write a thesis- on the latter I am not certain, for I wish mostly to improve myself and not to reintegrate with the often soul-numbing world of academia- I might take on a larger role to employ these increased faculties. 

“But incompetence, otherwise, still holds a small amount of sway in my concerns. In times of past letters it sure consumed me, but I’m haunted by the fact that others, like Allie, somehow surpass my intellect despite less education and a lower age. On the whole this substantiates my ignorance; though I am dedicated to improving myself, and I am not ashamed to say I have done a fair job of doing so, I am realising that perhaps in terms of nature I am insufficient. But that might be redundant to consider, for I think that even if one is less capable than another their ends are not negated; I recall such an inkling in regards to happiness, or rather unhappiness. Allie is working harder and on things of greater magnitude than I, but my work is still worthwhile, although it is mostly austere developmental tasks (when I am done with the University I might begin some other, more fulfilling tasks). So perhaps I can still be considered incompetent; but I am working to eliminate such an infection, am succeeding, and regardless am already completing much. I’ll have grounds more relative than this, though- be well, dear Seneca.”

Thoughtful, Roger Levis laid down his sharpened pencil. The elegant calligraphy smiled back at his face, the brilliant, glossy paper fully unhindered by sweat, which had not been an issue for quite a while at this point, no thanks whatsoever to that odd salve treatment he recalled. Sitting in his plaid shirt and grey running pants, he observed Halloway Diner. The warm, fuzzy rays of light shot through the glass and illuminated the diner in full, and though there were little smiles most of the customer and employee countenances were pleasant. The torn-out bathroom had been closed off with the discovery of a deeper issue; Diana Halloway had retired and left the place to the order of Terry, her son; most of the business people had stopped using the diner, although when they or the stockbrokers occasionally did they appeared in a more mellow state of mind, perhaps as a result of the eudaemonic weather. The weather certainly left Roger satisfied. Eventually Terry walked over. Though he now managed and owned the restaurant, the promotion coming to soothe much of his irritability (he supposed a large root of such was unfulfilled ambition left from his business major at the University), he preferred still to serve the customers occasionally and involve himself with more than administrative duties. 

“Morning, Roger. I must say, I’ve been glad you’ve evolved to cappuccinos over that mud you used to drink.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Anything you’d like to eat?”

Roger smiled. Although Terry was still a bit rude on occasion, he was glad he was also more content. “Hey, I ‘preciate it, but I’ve eaten. I must say I’m glad you’ve also evolved in a sense! Diner’s been tremendously more efficient with you in charge.” To the latter sentence Terry gave his appreciation and a slap on the back. His cataracts had diminished and he sharply observed the paper ahead of Roger.

Curious, he asked, “Who’s Seneca?”