Page 30 of Manhattan State of Mind

A loud thud resonates from within the metal box, but I don’t dare look back. Here’s hoping that’s the last encounter I have with the wolf for alongwhile.

My heart might not survive the replay.

EIGHT

Lucy

The office floor is dead, thank God. Barely a soul in yet.

As I make my way to my desk, I get an exhausted nod from a developer who looks like she’s been coding all night, living off Red Bull and Taco Bell.

A giant balloon that reads “Get better, Lucy!” floats from my desk, alongside a second featuring a cruelly unflattering image of my face.

My God. It’s so distorted that my chin has disappeared entirely, and my cheeks look like I’m having a severe allergic reaction to shellfish. Matty, you’re a dead man.

I slump into my chair, tears prickling in my eyes as I scan the get-well cards. At least everything else seems familiar—my trusty blue notebooks, Post-it notes, and pens neatly arranged. I’m more a creature of habit than I realized.

Then I clock something out of place—an action figure perched defiantly atop my monitor. Lev Gleason’s Golden Age “Daredevil”; he’s clad in his vintage two-tone costume of deep crimson and bold royal blue, complete with his signature dark blue cowl. He seems to fixate on me, even though I can’t see his eyes.

Weird. I never take comic memorabilia to work, considering it a touch too fan-girl cringe-worthy. Why on earth would I break my own rule?

My gaze wanders around the design team’s area. Some things haven’t changed at all: the stupid dented crown for team member of the month, Matty’s cereal boxes, Taylor’s trophies, and the dunce-of-the-day hat for whoever screws up.

Hanging on the wall is Wendy and Matt’s attempt to make their knees resemble bums, bringing a small smile to my lips.

There are subtle differences. New schematics and Post-its detailing Project Tangra’s second phase pepper the walls. But the remnants of Phase One are still visible. It seems so exciting. Shame I don’t remember a minute of it.

I go through the printouts on my desk filled with user journeys and design blueprints, feeling a sense of accomplishment that I don’t quite understand. I did these? It’s so strange that I can’t remember. They’re dated two weeks ago.

I’m glad no one’s here to see me well up. Why is my brain being such a stubborn asshole?

Enough wallowing. It’s time to get to work, even if I have to pretend everything is fine while wrestling with a memory-shaped black hole. All I can do is tread water and hope I don’t sink.

I wasn’t lying to Wolfe when I said I was up to speed. Sure, I don’t remember the blood, sweat, and tears behind these designs. The late nights, stress headaches, and shouting matches over interface details that could make or break Tangra.

But I’ve got the straight facts right here. The real, concrete results of all our hard work. And it’s obvious, I was grinding it out here nonstop. It would explain why my past year has been so uneventful. I must’ve been living at this desk 24/7. All this, without a promotion.

We got something substantial off the ground for Phase One. Not exactly by Wolfe’s stopwatch, but we were close. Atlantic City’s smallest casino is now 100 percent cash-free for its high roller games, per Wolfe’s vision.

Judging by the timestamps of some emails, we worked our asses off and didn’t sleep.

I’m so engrossed in my work that the slow influx of colleagues around nine barely registers on my radar. My stomach churns, dreading any unforeseen changes.

But except for a few new faces, everyone is familiar: Wendy, our junior User Researcher, the two Tonys, the developers, Brody, the graphic designer, and team playboy. No Taylor yet. Matty’s late, obviously.

They swarm around my desk, then the questions start.

People don’t believe I’ve lost a year.

Or they don’t get it.

“Hey Luce, how are you feeling?”

Followed by: “Shit, so you really did lose your memory? Andy sent an email yesterday.”

I feel like I’m a freak show exhibit.

They’re skeptical.