Page 2

1

Lena

Five weeks earlier

I stare at the script in front of me, mouthing the words silently before my next call.

“Hello, I’m calling about a life-changing opportunity to protect your loved ones…”

Christ. The only thing changing lives around here is the soul-crushing fluorescent lighting slowly giving us all vitamin D deficiencies.

The phone rings exactly four times before someone picks up. I launch into my pitch, trying to sound enthusiastic about term life insurance, while clicking through Zillow listings that might as well be fantasy real estate porn for someone with my bank balance.

“Yes, ma’am, for just pennies a day ? —”

Click. Dial tone.

Fantastic. That’s twelve hang-ups in half an hour. A new personal record.

I click on an apartment listing that’s only slightly out of my price range—meaning I’d have to skip meals three days a week instead of two. The photos show gleaming hardwood floors and windows that actually open. Luxury living compared to the backseat of my Honda Civic, where I’ve been sleeping for the past week, perfecting the art of contorting my body around the gearshift.

“Dianne!”

Marjorie’s voice slices through the call center like a scalpel. She materializes behind me with the supernatural stealth of someone who spent her formative years studying the hunting techniques of large predatory cats.

“I noticed you were off-script on that last call,” she says.

“I was just trying to sound more natural,” I say, hastily trying to close the apartment tab.

“Natural doesn’t sell policies.” She leans in close enough that I can smell her cinnamon gum. “Remember, every uninsured person who dies is a missed commission opportunity.”

Jesus.

I nod, wondering if there’s a market for supervisor life insurance. I could make a killing. Literally.

Marjorie’s gaze flicks to my screen, her mouth curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“And what’s this?” She jabs a manicured finger at my browser tab. “Personal browsing during call hours?”

“Just looking for housing on my break,” I lie. My break was three hours ago and lasted exactly seven minutes.

“Well, your break ended”—she makes a theatrical show of checking her watch—”two hours and fifty-three minutes ago. Back to the phones. Death waits for no one, and neither does our quarterly quota.”

She struts away, leaving behind a cloud of overpowering cinnamon and corporate oppression.

I pull up my call list and see fifteen more names to get through before I can leave. Fifteen more chances to convince strangers that mortality is just around the corner.

I rub my temple and glance at the name tag clipped to my cheap polyester blouse. Diane.

Not Lena. Diane.

Because according to SecureLife Insurance, we’re more likely to sell trust if we’re assigned a name that “aligns with the demographic we’re targeting.”

They paid for a psychological study to tell them that, apparently. Something about people feeling more comfortable buying from someone whose name sounds like they could have gone to high school together.

An almost retiree from Ohio? Meet Diane. A twenty-something dude fresh out of college? Jason. A retiree? Evelyn.

It’s like when you take a foreign language class, and the teacher gives you a “culturally appropriate” name to match. Only instead of practicing verb tenses, we’re emotionally manipulating people into confronting their mortality.

It’s supposed to be subtle. But it’s hard to sell sincerity when I keep forgetting who the hell I am.