The Lullaby

I secure the bomb beneath the cradle and hush the baby to sleep.

She’s swaddled in her Burberry blanket and quite far from home, but her father has all the clues he needs to find her: the anagram I left on the windshield of his Cybertruck; the trail of endemic leaves sprinkled between the nursery and his unlocked sunroom door; the shapeless map I carved into his mahogany desk, with a charred pacifier marking the spot.

At least I’m giving him a chance to save her. The chance he never gave my job. I had until close of business to collect my things and say my goodbyes. I’m extending him the same courtesy. Though it's riddles he’s collecting, and his goodbye may require divine intercession.

Actions have reactions, Jack. You treated me like I was just a number. Well, here’s a number for you: ninety.

I initiate the countdown. The beeping wakes the babe. I photograph her tears and Snapchat them to his secret account, like the pictures he made the interns send him, except this minor is fully clothed.

For as critical as you were about my punctuality and problem-solving skills, I thought you’d be here by now. I guess ChatGPT can’t replace every job.

Eighty-nine minutes. Maybe he’ll succeed. 

If he's clever enough to play the role of both boss and employee, he should be clever enough to play both father and hero.

I send another image of the frightened babe, and close the cabin door behind me.