Hey, Zero, what you got cooking today?

The guard says as I push my mop bucket down the hallway, both of my hands holding the mop handle steady,

steering the bucket like I'm using a huge joystick, which, in my mind, I kind of am.

I like games. I like games.

I like playing them, watching docks on how they're made, and YouTube videos of critiques

and reviews.

I still go to the arcade close to my trailer, although most of the old classics have out-of-order

signs on them, which is a pity. I smile up at the guard as I pass by. I can't remember

his name, Chad or Tony or Trent or something. They're all the same. Tall, burly, mean,

or, at least, the ones around this side are. I'm barely five feet eight, slim, and have some issues with my face.

Makes it hard for folks to take me seriously, especially the Chad's or Tony's or Trent's.

They look down at the scars on my face, just like they look down on me as a person.

Hey, Zero, what did you say happen to your face again?

The Chad or Tony or Trent asks.

Pit bull got you?

I'd sigh, but I'm all out of those.

I've been here for six years now.

My sighs left a long time ago.

Chihuahua, I say and keep pushing the mop bucket down the hall, headed to the east wing,

where I've been called to clean up something that no one else wants to touch.

Chad or Tony or Trent starts laughing.

That's right.

...