I can’t tell if it’s the chemicals or the quiet that’s getting to me. The hallway still smells faintly sharp—like bleach pretending to be clean. My mother says her chair’s been sticky since the last treatment. Says it’s fine. Says she can’t smell the chemicals anymore.
I keep meaning to look into the company again, but I can’t remember what I already found. Their website’s gone now—or maybe I typed it wrong. The cached version looks older than the internet should allow. I tried calling the number from the old email. Disconnected.
At work, I scroll through my inbox again, rereading the chain between me and management. Their logo—red circle—feels brighter every time I see it, like the pixels are bleeding through the screen.
I notice a family with a small child visiting Leona. I think I recognize them from the photos on her table. The kid’s got the biggest permanent marker I’ve ever seen—and it’s not black. He’s probably only old enough to draw simple shapes. I bet Leona’s fridge is covered in those drawings. I bet that kid loses them everywhere. I remember being a kid once.
Still, I’ve started noticing the same red circles in places they don’t belong—on lampposts, on mailers, faintly burned into the plastic of a grocery bag. It’s easy to explain if you want to. Ink transfer, trick of the light, pareidolia. My brain making shapes where none exist.
Maybe that’s what happens when you spend too much time around the fumes—your thoughts dissolve like the glue on a label.
Mom’s doing better, or says she is. Denise hasn’t answered the door in days. The red paper on her door is gone. In its place—nothing. Just the faint mark where the tape peeled paint away, like a scar healing wrong.
I tell myself the company’s finished with this building. I tell myself it’s over.
But then there are the men in gray jumpsuits—planting bugs, or tracking devices. Maybe “bugs” is just a clever disguise for something else. Maybe there’s a scheme I can’t quite uncover. I had the details once. Somewhere. Maybe nowhere. The logical answer is that they really were just doing their job.
Maybe the red circles don’t mean anything—just a kid’s drawing that ended up taped to doors or tucked in a cleaning crew’s pocket.
Maybe I brought it in myself.
No. There’s something darker happening here. I can feel it. They’re infiltrating this place. Quietly. Thoroughly.
The problem is, I’m not sure who they are anymore.