The Tiff Singularity (A Collection of Lake Wonder Fiction)

Tiff Flashes A Fed

The agent pushes an envelope across the wooden picnic table at her. Simple, manila, overstuffed with pages: Tiff knows exactly what it contains.

The agent looks at her expectantly. He's nondescript, the kind of man who blends in perfectly: brown hair, brown eyes, a suit in-between well-tailored and off-the-rack, government-regulation wristwatch. Tiff supposes she could also blend in if she would tone it down a little— but not like him. It's like he was made to do this. Five-foot-eleven and naturally-forgettable.

"How do I know it's all in there?" she tests.

He keeps his voice level. It's pissing her off. Gesturing to the envelope, he welcomes her to, "Go ahead. Take a look. It's all there."

More than anything else, she's upset that this is the only channel she could think to go through. They're supposed to owe her a favor, given what she did for them back in November, and yet—

And yet, here she is, with her notebook sitting next to her on the bench and her hands flicking through the papers on the folder. At the outset, all she can think to say is, "Caroline? Why Caroline? Again, I mean."

"Caroline Black is a very normal and respectable name. You said the only stipulation was that your soon-to-be-ex-husband wanted to keep their old initials and plausibly still be called 'Carrie,' correct?"

"I hate how reasonable you're being. It makes my blood boil."

"From what I hear, everything does that. Didn't you threaten to kill your friend's dog?"

She keeps looking through the documents to check the birthdate on the fake birth certificate and the driver's license match— December 21st, 2003. It's perfectly-made. She can't tell the difference between the manufacture of this card and her own (June 9th, 2004). "Percy doesn't have a dog. It was an empty threat."

"All those threats, those major arrests— I think it's a wonder, and I have to wonder how you still have friends."

"Wow. You're a dick." She tries not to let on that she's constantly wondering the same thing, though it's more out of delight than self-loathing these days.

"They don't pay me to be polite."

"Jesus. Shut up." She can't think of anything to say that isn't just another way of calling him an asshole. Instead, she slides the folder closer to herself, closes it, and tries to stand.

He makes a noise of error when he grabs her wrist in the way her mother used to— full fist looped around like a threat. He makes the buzzer noise again. "You'll owe us for this favor, and we do expect payment to be discussed immediately. So, tell me— did you bring anything worth trading?"

"First of all, you already owe me a favor for what I did in November."

"You did that for the good of the world."

"Maybe the government shouldn't be involved in matters of the universe if they're not going to pay us and their apologies suck ass like a vacuum." She tugs her hand away, but he doesn't budge.

"Does the universe pay you, Miss Sheridan?"

She hesitates. Having failed at freeing her wrist by tugging on it, she sits back down and raises her fingers until the agent gets the hint that she isn't going to bolt and relinquishes his grip.

"I suppose your lack of an answer is answer enough. So, tell me, Miss Sheridan: what are you willing to do for our division? What will you do for us so that your pal Bloodsaw can live their life?"

"They'll live their life whether they have documentation or not."

"And they'll keep living in that illegal shithole apartment?"