The Embedding
I work as an embedded programmer. I've just stated that I program the code that goes into the tiny computers inside your microwave, car, and fridge, which should lead you to conclude that I'm intelligent. My job is my passion, and I'm good at it, being a code-smith for years, and getting better. If it weren't for people like me, you wouldn't have the captured magic you do in your rented and owned housing.
There is this person I like at my job. They might share the sentiment, but they've guards up. I'd love to bring a wrecking ball to the walls of the prison they've built for themselves, but I know I should wait.
We are having a crisis right now. The tiny chips that go into these devices are in shortage and getting bought up like toilet paper at the sign of any inconvenience.
On this summer's day, I look at my inbox, my arms shake, and the mass of letters turns to snowflakes falling across the screen. A winter's chill passes through me, and I struggle to read the two emails that caught my eye. One is from the person I like, and the other is from my manager and it starts with “Dear,” and ends with “Sorry.” Someone played a cruel joke on me, replacing my job with a couple of heartfelt messages and a date at a restaurant.