There were better ways to spend his Saturday, but Cecil could not think of any.

It was his fault, in the end, for waiting so long to do his taxes.

Waking up at 5 a.m. in a cold sweat, realizing that he only had 12 hours before the IRS brought the hammer down,

was not the greatest start to his weekend.

The anxiety had been enough to propel him out of bed into his desktop,

but about 30 minutes in, the internet shut down.

The same internet that only his father knew the password to,

and his father had passed away four days ago,

which was why everything was so chaotic.

Now Cecil was counting on a cup of black coffee and some printed forms to save him.

It was about seven in the morning before his sister walked into the kitchen and squinted at him

from behind a curtain of dark bangs. She hugged her chest and walked over to the coffee maker, picking up the pot

to pour the few inches left above the sediment into her own cup.

You're up early, she said. Her words tangled up in a yawn. Cecil pursed his lips

and tapped the point of his number two pencil onto the newspaper thin booklet he was leafing through.

Congratulations, Audrey, he said.

You've traveled back in time. It's 1983 here, and I am doing my taxes by hand.

You're doing it by hand?

She glanced at the calendar that was stuck to the refrigerator.

Aren't they due today? Yep, he said.

I get to mail them out on everything by 5 p.m. sheesh. She stirred some creamer into her coffee.

Well, you're fucked. Thanks, he said. Also, the Wi-Fi is down. Yeah, she told him. I noticed.

...