Hermes is shocked when I'm back the next week. He says that MATH has never picked the same person three weeks in a row. I give a winning smile and let my ignorance be blissful. Why does it want me? Who cares. The money is good. The money is good.
   One job, two jobs, three more jobs pass and they're all still jumbled text that ask me to do only menial tasks. I have no idea how anything I'm doing is related to crime at all. Every once in a while, though, I remember the body from the first mission. And I get this nagging feeling at my heels and in my throat. So I try not to remember the body. I do a lot of not-remembering, it keeps your mind keen.
   I'm asked to walk someone's dog. I'm asked to collect litter. I'm asked to toss litter into gutters. It becomes a weekly routine for me and I sink into it like a dog in a blanket.
  But damn Hermes had me thinking still. While remembering highschool, this story came back to me that we read in junior year.
   It was called The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas. It’s about this utopian place where they race horses and shit, everyone shares, no soldiers or kings or anything. But it depends on the constant torture of a single child. If the kid's not tortured, the utopia falls apart. They keep the kid in a dungeon, and when the Omelas people are old enough to know the truth, they’re shown the child. And some of them just walk off. And no one knows where to, but they just leave. Bow out. Classy, I always thought. I figured I would be one of the people who would leave. I don’t know.
   As I was out putting blank stickers on bus signs for Maximum Thought, I put out some feelers inside myself for how I was doing, and it was like sitting down in a chair that’d been pulled out from under you. You put some weight into the motion, expecting it to rest on something, but there’s just nothing there. An emptiness.
   But the money was good. The money was always good.