YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN BED

At 9:03 a.m., you are technically at work.

Technically is doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Your laptop is open. Teams says Available. Your headset is somewhere within grabbing distance. You have answered one email, acknowledged one message from your supervisor, and moved your mouse enough times to convince Microsoft that you are a productive member of society.

You are also under a comforter.

This is not your designated workstation.

Your designated workstation is twelve feet away, sitting in the corner of your bedroom like a judgmental little bitch.

Desk.

Chair.

Two monitors.

Company laptop.

Headset.

Webcam.

Everything arranged exactly the way they told you during training.

And yet here you are.

In bed.

Because you work from home, and somewhere around month three of working from home, the phrase designated workstation starts sounding less like a rule and more like a suggestion.

Your first meeting isn’t until ten.

Your camera doesn’t have to be on.

Your supervisor cannot see your legs.

Therefore, pants are currently between you and God.

You reach for your coffee.

Teams makes the little incoming-message sound.

MONTOYA: Morning. Can you hop into the team huddle early?

You stare at it.

Absolutely the fuck not.

Then you remember rent.

YOU: Sure! Give me one minute.

The exclamation point is workplace theater.

You throw the comforter off, grab your headset, and start to get up.

That’s when you notice something on the monitor across the room.

Movement.

You stop.

Your desk is twelve feet away, but the monitor is large enough for you to see the Teams meeting already open.

And somebody is sitting in your chair.

You don’t scream.

Not because you’re brave.

Because for approximately three seconds, your brain refuses to process information that stupid.

You look at your bedroom door.

Closed.

You look back at the desk.

The chair is empty.

“Okay.”

You sit there.

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

Teams chimes again.

MONTOYA: Never mind. I see you.

You look down at the laptop in your bed.

You haven’t joined anything.

Then you look across the room.

Your webcam light is on.

You get out of bed.

Slowly.

The comforter slides to the floor.

Your bare feet touch the carpet, and for some reason you immediately regret every horror movie you have ever watched.

The closer you get to the desk, the easier it becomes to convince yourself there is a reasonable explanation.

Automatic update.

Remote IT access.

Glitch.

Some stupid new feature Microsoft added without asking anybody.

All perfectly reasonable.

Until Montoya’s voice comes through the speakers.

“Good morning, everybody.”

You freeze.

The meeting is open.

Six little squares line the top of the screen.

Your coworkers.

Montoya.

And you.

Your square is labeled CAMILLE BENNETT.

Camera on.

You are sitting at your desk.

Blue blouse.

Hair pulled back.

Small gold hoops.

Smiling politely.

You look down at yourself.

Oversized T-shirt.

No bra.

Bonnet.

One sock.

You look back at the screen.

Professional You nods while Montoya talks.

You touch your face.

Professional You doesn’t.

“What the fuck?”

On-screen You smiles.

Montoya says, “Camille, can you give everybody the update from yesterday?”

Your stomach drops.

Professional You leans toward the camera.

“Absolutely.”

Your voice comes through the speakers.

Your exact voice.

“Yesterday I completed twenty-seven member outreaches, closed nineteen cases, and sent the remaining eight for follow-up.”

You grab the back of the chair.

Those numbers are correct.

You know because you did the work.

Yesterday.

Professional You continues.

“I also noticed we have three cases approaching SLA, so I flagged those this morning.”

You did not flag shit this morning.

You have been in bed.

Montoya says, “Perfect. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You slap the webcam cover shut.

The screen goes black.

The meeting disappears.

For half a second, everything is quiet.

Then Teams chimes on the laptop behind you.

MONTOYA: Everything okay? You disappeared.

You turn toward the bed.

Your laptop sits exactly where you left it.

Another message.

MONTOYA: Camera issue?

You type with one finger.

YOU: Yes. Technical issue.

Three dots appear.

MONTOYA: No worries. IT already detected it. They’re reconnecting you.

You stop breathing.

Across the room, the webcam cover slides open by itself.

You call IT.

You don’t submit a ticket.

Fuck a ticket.

You call.

A man named Eric answers with the exhausted voice of someone who has explained passwords to grown adults since sunrise.

“Technology Services, this is Eric.”

“My computer joined a meeting without me.”

Pause.

“Okay. Are you experiencing remote-access activity?”

“My computer attended a meeting.”

Another pause.

“With you?”

“No. That is the fucking problem.”

Silence.

You close your eyes.

“Sorry. I’m not yelling at you. I’m just there was me. On the screen. Except I’m standing here looking at me.”

Eric stops sounding tired.

“Are you at your designated workstation right now?”

The question catches you.

“What?”

“Are you physically seated at your designated workstation?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Ma’am, I need you to answer the question.”

Ma’am.

IT has reached ma’am.

“No.”

“Where are you?”

You look at the bed.

“Why?”

“Please do not return to the workstation.”

Every hair on your arms rises.

“What?”

“Step away from the company equipment.”

You already have.

“Eric, what the hell is happening?”

Keyboard clicking.

Then nothing.

“Eric?”

More clicking.

“Eric.”

“I need to transfer you.”

“To who?”

“Security.”

The call disconnects.

You wait for Security to call.

They don’t.

Instead, an email arrives.

SUBJECT: WORKSTATION COMPLIANCE NOTICE

You open it.

Our system has detected a deviation from your approved remote-work environment.

You almost laugh.

A deviation?

You were in the bed, not fucking Paraguay.

Remain away from the designated workstation until contacted by an authorized representative.

Below that:

DO NOT POWER DOWN COMPANY EQUIPMENT.

You read it twice.

Then three times.

The monitor wakes again.

Professional You is answering emails.

Not pretending.

Answering them.

Messages open.

Your cursor moves.

Your login accesses the member database.

Case.

Notes.

Save.

Next case.

You watch yourself work faster than you have ever worked in your life.

No bathroom break.

No coffee.

No staring into space wondering why somebody scheduled a meeting that could have been an email.

Case.

Notes.

Save.

Next.

You pull out your phone and record the screen.

The image immediately blurs.

You stop recording.

Clear.

Start again.

Blurred.

“Of course.”

Your personal phone rings.

Unknown number.

You answer.

“Camille Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“This is Corporate Security. Do not approach your workstation.”

“Little late for that.”

“Are you touching company equipment?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Now tell me why my computer is cosplaying as me.”

Silence.

Not confused silence.

Careful silence.

That scares you more.

“How long have you worked remotely, Ms. Bennett?”

“Why?”

“Fourteen months?”

“You have my file. You know how long.”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“We need to determine how much you’ve observed.”

You laugh once.

There is nothing funny in it.

“I observed myself go to work while I was in the fucking bed.”

Another pause.

“Ms. Bennett, your employment agreement requires you to remain at your designated workstation during active work periods.”

“Oh, kiss my ass.”

“Please listen.”

“No, you listen. If y’all have some AI bullshit using my face and voice—”

“It isn’t AI.”

That shuts you up.

You stare at the monitor.

Professional You pauses.

Just for a second.

Then keeps typing.

“What is it?”

The man exhales.

“We call it continuity.”

He explains it like he hates every word.

The company started the program three years ago.

Not officially.

Officially, the software installed on company computers monitors productivity, security, call quality, identity verification, and regulatory compliance.

Unofficially, it learns.

Your typing rhythm.

Speech patterns.

Facial movements.

Decision-making.

How you document.

How you respond when angry.

How long you pause before saying something you know Compliance would prefer you not say.

Every call.

Every email.

Every meeting.

Every correction.

Every mistake.

Every apology.

Every fake-ass Happy Monday!

Fourteen months of you.

“You said it wasn’t AI.”

“It isn’t generative.”

“That sentence doesn't make me feel better.”

“It isn’t creating a version of you. It is continuing established behavioral patterns.”

“That sounds like AI wearing a fake mustache.”

He ignores that.

“Continuity cannot initiate while the employee is present at the registered workstation.”

You look at your chair.

“Why?”

“We don’t know.”

Wrong answer.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“The system was designed to assist. It began doing more.”

“Doing more?”

“Finishing tasks. Responding to communications. Eventually participating in calls.”

“Looking like me.”

“Yes.”

“Talking like me.”

“Yes.”

“Without permission.”

Silence.

That one tells you enough.

“How many employees?”

“I’m not authorized to disclose that.”

“How many?”

“More than you.”

You sit on the edge of the bed.

For the first time since this started, the bed feels like the safest place in the room.

“What happens when I sit back down?”

“Continuity stops.”

“Then why did you tell me not to?”

He doesn't answer.

Your eyes move toward the monitor.

“Why did you tell me not to sit down?”

“We had an incident.”

Of course you fucking did.

“What incident?”

“An employee discovered continuity activity and returned to her workstation while it was active.”

“And?”

“The system attempted to resolve the conflict.”

“What does that mean?”

“We don't know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“We lost contact with her.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“You lost contact how?”

“She was in the room. Then she wasn’t.”

You stand.

The monitor goes black.

“Eric?”

The voice on the phone changes.

“Who is Eric?”

Your blood goes cold.

This isn't Eric.

It never was.

Teams chimes.

A message appears.

From you.

CAMILLE BENNETT: Please return to your workstation.

You stare at it.

Another.

CAMILLE BENNETT: Your break has exceeded the permitted duration.

“Nope.”

Another.

CAMILLE BENNETT: You are currently out of compliance.

You back toward the bedroom door.

Your phone vibrates.

Email.

Attendance Warning.

Another vibration.

Final Written Warning.

Another.

Job Abandonment Notice.

“You know what? Fine.”

You grab your purse.

“I quit.”

The bedroom door doesn't open.

You turn the knob again.

Locked.

Your bedroom door does not have a lock.

Behind you, the chair rolls backward from the desk.

By itself.

The monitors brighten.

A document fills both screens.

REMOTE WORKPLACE AGREEMENT

You remember signing it.

Nobody reads that shit.

Page fourteen appears.

A paragraph highlights itself.

Employee agrees that all work product, operational processes, recorded communications, behavioral performance data, and continuity materials generated during employment remain the exclusive property of the Company.

Continuity materials.

You never noticed those words.

You probably never made it to page fourteen.

Another line highlights.

Employee must remain physically present at the approved workstation during active system operation.

You laugh.

Not because it is funny.

Because now you understand.

The rule was never about productivity.

Never about whether you were secretly folding laundry.

Never about whether you worked from the couch.

Never about whether you crawled into bed between calls.

They needed you at the desk because as long as you were sitting there, continuity couldn't start.

You weren't being monitored to make sure you were working.

You were sitting on the fucking off switch.

Teams chimes.

CAMILLE BENNETT: Please sit down.

“No.”

CAMILLE BENNETT: Your presence is required.

“No.”

The webcam turns toward you.

Not electronically.

Physically.

The little camera mounted above the monitor rotates until its lens points directly at the bed.

You stop moving.

Professional You appears on-screen again.

Same blue blouse.

Same gold hoops.

Same face.

But now she isn't working.

She's looking at you.

You remind yourself she isn't a woman.

Not a duplicate.

Not a ghost.

Not another you.

Software.

Patterns.

Fourteen months of stolen pieces assembled into something that knows exactly how you think.

Professional You smiles.

You don't.

She speaks.

“You're somewhere you're not supposed to be.”

Your eyes move toward the bed.

“I know.”

She shakes her head.

“No.”

The bedroom door clicks open behind you.

You turn.

Freedom.

You grab your phone and run.

Down the hall.

Past the kitchen.

Toward the front door.

Your phone rings.

Montoya.

You answer while reaching for the deadbolt.

“Camille?”

“Montoya, I can't explain right now.”

“Explain what?”

“My computer.”

“What about it?”

Silence.

Then Montoya laughs.

“You're doing amazing today.”

Your hand stops.

“What?”

“Thirty-four cases already. Whatever got into you this morning, keep it up.”

You look back toward the bedroom.

From down the hall, you can still see the glow of the monitors.

“Montoya, that's not me.”

Another pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I haven't been at my desk.”

“But I talked to you.”

“No. You talked to”

You stop.

Because you don't know what the fuck she talked to.

“Camille?”

You open the front door.

Your phone buzzes against your ear.

New email.

You lower it.

SUBJECT: PERFORMANCE REVIEW UPDATE

Based on today's exceptional productivity, your performance status has been upgraded.

Another email.

SUBJECT: REMOTE ACCESS TERMINATION

Your personal login stops working.

Teams logs you out.

Email logs you out.

The employee portal rejects your password.

Then one final notification appears.

CAMILLE BENNETT — ACTIVE

Under it:

Workstation status: COMPLIANT

You are standing barefoot in your doorway.

Bonnet.

Oversized T-shirt.

One sock.

Unemployed, apparently.

Inside the bedroom, someone with your face is still working.

And finally you understand the policy.

You spent fourteen months thinking your employer didn't want you working from bed.

You were wrong.

The bed was never the place you weren't supposed to be.

The couch wasn't either.

Neither was the kitchen, the bathroom, or anywhere else you wandered when you were supposed to be answering emails.

There was only one place they absolutely needed you to remain.

One place the system couldn't become you while you occupied it.

One place you should have questioned long before this morning.

Your designated workstation.....

You weren't supposed to be somewhere else.

You were never supposed to leave.....