3 Days of Bliss

1

Bliss Birdsong rode the sleek bullet west.

She got a lot of looks from the other passengers in first class because of her topcoat and pink hightops. She felt cold, because of what she wasn’t wearing beneath her coat. A girl named Quince, identically dressed, sat beside her.

“We’re going too fast,” Bliss said, observing the blur of scenery.

“It’s the bullet, baby,” Quince replied.

Bliss blinked, confused. “Am I going to work?”

“No. Leaving,” Quince replied. “Don’t ya remember?”

“No,” Bliss said. “Maybe yes.” At the moment, her memories were like puzzle pieces, half of them blank.

Quince gave her a queer look. “What’s the matter? Did ya take somethin’?”

“No,” Bliss said. “Maybe yes. An anti-depressant, I think. It’s experimental.”

“Does it make ya loopy?” Quince asked.

“Maybe,” Bliss said. “Where’s Max?”

“Waitin’ for us,” Quince replied. “You know where.”

But Bliss didn’t know. Or she couldn’t recall.

“We’re going too fast,” she repeated.

***

Two days earlier, Bliss sat alone on the same train, trying to concentrate on what awaited her.

The first-class car was half full, with senior veeps from Majus Arts and Sciences at the front, wearing identical charcoal suits and dull ties. She knew all their names and titles, after studying a chart of the corporate hierarchy in preparation for her new position.

She didn’t belong. Her mother, a senior veep of Personnel at Majus, arranged that internship. And her father rewarded her with a first-class pass for the train, too extravagant for such a low-level employee.

Two other passengers stood out. One was an older lady Bliss recognized as Ms. Palin Dowdy, the kind of suburbanite Lake Magnolia was famous for. The other was a younger man who looked familiar, dressed in a sweater hopelessly out of date, who had a thick beard. Bliss knew him, but couldn’t put a name to his hairy face.

The bullet flew east, crossing into Romanoff. The first stop was Butler Village; the second Collegiate Street. Before they reached Main Station, Ms. Dowdy unbuckled herself, which got the attention of the attendant on duty. The older lady guided the attendant towards the rear, then stopped and pointed at the bearded young man.

“Check his credentials,” she said. “This is first-class. Does he look like he belongs here? I don’t ride with my Lessers.”

The attendant appeared caught. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice low, “but may I see your id card?”

He shrugged, but produced the thin metallic item in question. The attendant inserted it into the device on her belt. She was wearing opaque goggles, which displayed the train’s speed and internal temperature. The goggles flashed amber, and the attendant seemed quite surprised.

“My sincere apologies for the inconvenience,” she said, returning his card.

Ms. Dowdy lingered. “Well?”

“He’s ticketed,” the attendant replied. “He’s also a major investor in SolaRail.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s one of my bosses,” the attendant replied. “Please return to your seat, ma’am. If you require assistance, I’ll be happy to help.”

Ms. Dowdy wasn’t satisfied. She promised anyone who would listen that she would be filing a complaint at the highest levels. She knew people, she claimed.

Bliss looked at the young man, curious about his identity. She admired his restraint, since he could’ve told the old lady where to get off. Bliss had dealt with her share of suburbanites Lake Magnolia was famous for, who were opinionated, class-conscious, and rude beyond belief.

The young man looked at her. He winked, and she blushed. She wondered what he looked like without his beard.

Ms. Dowdy detrained at Main Station, still fuming. The young man got off at Temple Avenue, the stop after that.

And Bliss remained strapped in to the end of the line in the city of Wiseman, where Majus Arts and Sciences was the major employer.

***

The highlight of the first day of her new job came in the last few minutes.

Otherwise, it was a double dose of tedium. In the morning, she filled in forms that verified her eligibility for employment. She went to the company cafeteria for lunch, which consisted of false sauce over boneless genera. In the afternoon, she read the employee manual, which had thirty-six sections covering every conceivable scenario.

At fifteen minutes to five, she was called into the head of the Department’s office. According to her fellow employees, it was the place great ideas went to die. The boss, Mr. Cain Dowdy, was at his desk, staring at screens.

“Did you do your id-forms?” he asked, his voice flat. “And your reading?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you’ve been given an assignment, for which you’re not prepared,” he said. “It seems your mother’s got pull upstairs.”

Bliss felt uncertain. “What’s the assignment?”

He turned the monitor on his desk so she could see the screen. It displayed the face of the same young man she’d seen on the train, only younger and clean shaven, which made him appear even more familiar.

“Do you know this person?”

She shrugged. “He was on my train. Your wife tried to have him thrown out of first class.”

Dowdy’s right eye twitched. “My wife?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Palin Dowdy? She mistook him for a Lesser, but he showed his credentials.”

Dowdy looked pale. “My wife,” he repeated. “We’ve been looking for this man for a month, as a person of interest.”

“Well, he has a beard now,” Bliss replied. “What kind of interest?”

“His name is Wolflow,” he said. “I was informed you went to school with him.”

The truth dawned. “I did. But he was three years ahead of me.”

The small private school they attended was in an exclusive neighborhood of Lake Magnolia known as Three Trees. She and her cousin Phoebe were allowed to enroll there courtesy of family ties. The young man’s name was Max-- a quiet boy, who didn’t have a beard then. His name was short for something. Magnum, or Magnus. . .

“His friends called him Max,” she added.

“Well, if you see him again,” Dowdy said, “we want you to follow him. I realize you have no training. Just. . . do your best.”

It was still her first day. “Sir?”

“If he spots you, improvise,” Dowdy said. “Sell him some company products. Take some brochures, just in case.”

She was at a loss. “I. . .I’ll do my best.”

“Please do,” Dowdy said. “And, Ms. Birdsong, don’t mention you saw my wife on the train. To anybody.”

2

The bullet approached Temple Avenue, but didn’t slow down.

Bliss saw the faces of passengers on the platform, like smears on a painting, as the train flew by.

“Why aren’t we stopping?” she asked.

“This is the express,” Quince replied.

“Oh,” Bliss said. “Okay.”

***

Two days earlier, as the bullet headed home, Bliss’ eyelids felt heavy.

She was alert when the train stopped at Temple Avenue, though, where one person stepped aboard. She looked like a street-girl, wearing a topcoat and a pair of absurdly pink hightops. Her hair was impossibly straight, in a pageboy style that framed her face.

The attendant on duty approached that human eyesore, prepared to escort her to a Lesser-class car. That was when Max Wolflow, the same bearded young man Bliss had seen that morning, came aboard before the doors closed. He handed the attendant his id card.

“She’s with me. Please add her to my account.”

“Her name?” the attendant asked. “For the record.”

“Quince,” the girl herself offered.

Bliss watched the new passengers strap in, quite curious. She’d known a girl named Quince when she was a kid, but she couldn’t decide if that odd bird was one and the same after so many years.

“So, this is first-class?” Quince said, observing the décor. “Smells a lot better than the back half.”

The train came to a stop at Collegiate Street. Nobody got on or off.

“Speakin’ of,” Quince said, pointing at Bliss, “isn’t that Kewpie’s cousin?”

“Who?”

“Her, there,” Quince said. “Remember? Queer Pheebs from Three Trees? Before she hitched some heavy and flew north. Remember?”

“I remember.”

Quince waved at Bliss across the car, and Bliss instinctively waved back. Quince must’ve been the girl she recalled. Because Bliss’ cousin Phoebe, known as Q.P. or Kewpie, had grown up in a state of gender confusion. And Phoebe married a larger girl and now lived in New York.

Bliss merely blushed, more comfortable eavesdropping on the conversation than serving as its subject.

***

Max and Quince got off the train at the next stop.

Following orders, Bliss followed them. The rest of the passengers remained aboard on their way to Lake Magnolia, where Bliss should’ve been headed.

Butler Village was where the servants who worked for the well-to-do families of Lake Magnolia lived. South of the tracks was a collection of ethnic enclaves. North of the station were crowded streets of poor white folks; though that neighborhood was being taken over by wannabe bohemians, seeking cheap rent.

Max and Quince headed that way; so Bliss did the same, at a distance. They headed down a dirty street, with warehouses lining one side. Bliss had no idea what she was doing, besides keeping her prey in sight. Max and Quince turned a corner; and by the time Bliss caught up, they’d reached their destination. She was able to peek around and see the two of them going up a long staircase together. It led to a loft apartment, over a boarded-up store.

She couldn’t imagine Max living there. He was an investor in SolaRail, who rode in first-class. After he and Quince went in the door at the top of the stairs, Bliss emerged from hiding to look for an address to include in her report. She took out her handheld, hoping it could provide precise coordinates. But when she looked up again, Max was at the top of the stairs watching her.

“Lost?”

“No,” she replied. “I represent Majus Arts and Sciences. We have a new product line you might be interested in.”

He gave her a look denoting doubt. She felt caught in a blatant lie, her pulse starting to race.

“Well, we’re having corned beef and cabbage for supper, if you’d like to come up.”

She should’ve politely declined, but remained curious. She wondered why Max was a person of interest for the company, what his relationship with Quince was, and why they had a loft in Butler Village, amongst other questions.

“Well, make yourself comfortable. Quince can entertain you, while I check the food.”

She entered a spacious room, with a high ceiling and unpainted rafters. Besides a mismatched couch, chair, and coffee table, the space was empty otherwise. It might’ve made a nice atelier for a starving artist, but wasn’t a place where people of means would live.

Max went through a swinging door to the kitchen. As Bliss was still looking over the layout, Quince stood and removed her long topcoat, answering another of Bliss’ many questions.

She was wearing what appeared to be a skintight leotard underneath, with an array of fascinating patterns in the weave. It took a long moment for Bliss to realize Quince wasn’t wearing anything, except ink. Those patterns were tattoos; or, more accurately, a single interconnected tattoo covering her arms, legs, and torso. The only places on her body not decorated were her face and hands (and possibly feet, in pink hightops).

Quince wasn’t entirely naked, though. She was also wearing a “leastie”-- the latest fad in daring swimwear. The bottoms consisted of a tiny triangle barely covering her privates, held in place by a thin thong. The top was a pair of pasties shaped like seashells.

Quince turned in a circle. “What do ya think, Kewpie’s cousin?”

“It’s. . .breathtaking. And my name’s Bliss.”

“Well, Miss Bliss,” Quince said, “hope ya don’t mind if we perform a little ritual before we eat.”

Bliss didn’t answer. “Are they real?”

“Permanent, ya mean?” Quince said. “Oh, yeah.”

“How long did it take?”

Quince shrugged. “Six months. Way back, it used to take years to do a full bodysuit. With modern lasers, you can do it even faster.”

Bliss wanted to ask her why she decided to make such a commitment, but Max came back in and interrupted her interrogation.

“It’ll be ready soon.”

“Can we do our regular thing first?” Quince asked. “Ya don’t mind if she watches, do ya?”

He gave Bliss a look. “Can she handle it? She seems like the sensitive suburban type to me.”

Quince waved her hand. “Experiencin’ new things is good for people.”

And Bliss herself remained too curious to object.

Quince also removed her hair. Her impossibly straight pageboy was a wig, it seemed. When she took it off, Bliss was even more surprised to see that Quince was bald-- or nearly so, since there was a grey shadow indicating a few day’s growth on her smooth scalp.

The ritual she mentioned concerned that layer of stubble. She placed one of the couch cushions in the middle of the open floor, so she could sit comfortably. Max knelt behind her, with a tackle box containing the necessary implements within reach. He took a jar of clear gel and applied some to her scalp. Then he brought out an old-fashioned straight-razor, which he wiped with a handy towel.

With great care, he used the blade to scrape away what little hair she had. Quince sat very still with eyes closed, humming as if having a religious experience.

Bliss watched, suppressing her disbelief. “You know, Majus has a line of depilatory creams that are just as effective.”

Max continued to wield the razor. “I know. The secret formula we use contains So-Smoothe, which is one of yours.”

“But there’s nothing like the feel of the blade,” Quince added. “Before I got my first tattoo, he shaved my entire body. It took a whole day to recover.”

“Too many nicks and cuts?” Bliss asked.

Quince grinned. “Not one. It was complete sensory overload. So, I make him do my head once a week, and the full-body every month.”

Half her scalp had been shorn down to smooth skin, so Max started to scrape away the rest. His movements were skillful, since he obviously got a lot of practice. Quince kept humming, on the verge of an ecstatic episode.

Bliss had seen too much. She would require time to digest what she’d witnessed, then somehow turn it into a report Dowdy would believe.

Quince had been raised in Lake Magnolia and educated at the exclusive private school of Three Trees. She should’ve been a well-bred young lady, seeking professional employment and planning an ideal family with a well-bred partner. Instead, she was a bald bohemian, covered in tattoos, in a loft in Butler Village. She’d turned her back on the notion of status, which should’ve been the basis of her existence.

And Max Wolflow, equally well-to-do, remained a complete mystery.

He finished that ritual by using a wet washcloth to clean away any residual gel, as if giving her head a nice shine. Bliss pretended to check her handheld.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I won’t be able to stay.”

Max rubbed baby oil on Quince’s smooth scalp. “Maybe next time.”

Bliss headed for the door. “It was nice meeting both of you again.”

“See ya on the train, Kewpie’s cousin,” Quince replied.

3

The bullet continued past Main Station and Collegiate Street, gaining speed.

Bliss fought the urge to panic. The box of puzzle pieces had scattered, and she was struggling to fit them together in logical order. They were going too fast, though. Everything was going too fast. It was a blur. Her life was a blur.

“When do we stop?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“Soon, baby,” Quince replied.

***

A day earlier, Bliss rode the sleek bullet to her second day of work.

She’d stayed up late, replaying events in her head. When she did nod off, she experienced strange dreams including a girl with a bodysuit, whose tattoos came to life like an animated zoo of exotic creatures.

At work, she split her time between rereading the employee manual and composing a draft of the report she would file concerning her undercover assignment. Her company-approved lunch consisted of tofu-flavored meat and chewy noodles, which made the menu of corned beef and cabbage from the previous evening sound like a gourmet feast. After spending the rest of the workday polishing her words and second-guessing, she transmitted the finished report a few minutes before she headed home.

She didn’t know a soul on the train ride home.

***

Bliss was called into Mr. Dowdy’s office early the next morning.

“Someone upstairs wants to see you,” he said.

“Did you read my report?”

He didn’t answer.

She rose to go. The space adjacent to Dowdy’s office served as the proverbial nerve center of the Department of Internal Security. A dozen desks were arranged facing the walls, in a company-approved layout. She went to sit in the most dimly-lit corner, facing the screen she hoped would provide the information Dowdy refused to. She clicked on the line labeled Assignment 36.01, sent from Dowdy.Docs.

RE BIRDSONG BLISS CONGRATULATIONS YOUVE BEEN SELECTED AS A CONTESTANT FOR THE SKINKFEST PAGEANT. PLEASE SEE GRETCH MARINA OFFICE B13 FOR MORE DETAILS.

Bliss suspected a joke, to haze the new girl. “The Skink Pageant?” she said to herself.

She expected confetti to fall, balloons to pop, and company-approved cake to be served, indicating the punch line. Her fellow employees sat staring at screens, with expressions of stoic disinterest.

She’d been asked to see someone named Gretch one floor above, who she hoped would tell her why this obvious mistake had been made.

***

Inside Office B13, Bliss found an office larger than Dowdy’s, with similar décor.

The faux pine paneling was covered in charts, along with the words FOR COMPANY & COUNTRY. The air was icy, as if intended to cause discomfort.

Sitting behind the desk was Marina Gretch, according to her oversized nameplate, Veep of Corporate Intelligence. Ms. Gretch was hefty and androgynous, with short hair in a bowl cut. She wore glasses with dark lenses, as if to hide any emotion her eyes might reveal.

“Come and sit,” she said, energetic. “Bliss, is it? So nice to meet you. I’m a dear friend of your mother’s.”

Bliss sat and shivered, noting Ms. Gretch was wearing a heavy sweater. “Yes, ma’am. I was directed here regarding my assignment.”

“Your mother assures me you’re perfect for the part. Will you require a brief history lesson first?”

Bliss tried to hide her surprise concerning her mother. “I believe so, ma’am.”

“Well, you know what Skinkfest is,” Ms. Gretch said. “I assume you’ve attended in the past.”

“Yes, we always went to the fair,” Bliss replied. “And I remember the parade.”

“Excellent. And there’s also the bazaar, with booths of arts-and-crafts. And the food. Cotton candy and a thousand deep-fried things. I always bring home a case of fig preserves.”

“My grandmother used to sell homemade jam there,” Bliss added.

“And then, after the parade, the main event,” Ms. Gretch said, nostalgic. “Did you ever attend the pageant?”

“No, ma’am. By that time, we were usually headed home. My cousin was a contestant one year, but I didn’t see it.”

“That would be Phoebe Whitworth, who placed third,” Ms. Gretch said, glancing at her screen. “You know what makes our pageant unique, don’t you?”

“All the girls have tattoos, right?”

“Correct,” Ms. Gretch said. “But this year, they’ll feature living works of art. Full bodysuits, with practically every bit of skin decorated with colorful designs. It’ll be a spectacular show.”

Bliss’s mind flashed to Quince in her daring wardrobe of a leastie and ink, wondering why she hadn’t connected her (and Max) with the festival, where tattoos were featured. “I assume the bodysuits will be temporary. . .”

“No, dear,” Ms. Gretch said. “They’ll be real and permanent. Some of the girls will rely on the needle-and-ink method. But there are modern techniques, like laser etching, which are practically painless.”

Bliss had no response, as the truth slowly dawned. Ms. Gretch stared at her through those darkened lenses.

“So, dear,” she said, “do you have any tattoos of your own?”

“No, ma’am,” Bliss replied. “Why have I been picked for this?”

“The company needs someone on the inside,” Ms. Gretch replied. “Lake Magnolia is hosting the pageant, but they’ve forbidden our veeps who live there from being involved. And according to the report you filed, you know the tattoo artist who’ll be the pageant’s emcee, correct? Magnus Wolflow? When we submitted your name as Wiseman’s contestant, he was quick to approve.”

“But I don’t live in Wiseman.”

“Wiseman consists of our company headquarters, three trailer parks, and a convenience store. So, Majus’ choice is Wiseman’s choice.”

Bliss felt exasperated, beset by disbelief.

“And,” Ms. Gretch went on, “you’re also quite lovely, dear. With a few cosmetics, you could be a living doll.”

She sounded like Bliss’ mother, who had a gift for the backhanded critique.

“Well, I’ve sent you a file with a history of the pageant, which you should read carefully,” Ms. Gretch said. “Any questions?”

Bliss had a hundred. “No, ma’am.”

“You seem to be having doubts, dear,” Ms. Gretch said. “I’ve arranged for you to speak with your mother, if you wish.”

Bliss did, though she would’ve preferred a private setting. Ms. Gretch pressed a square on her desktop, and a panel in the wall opened to reveal a large screen, below the words FOR COMPANY AND COUNTRY. Her mother appeared, sitting at a desk in an office identical to Marina Gretch’s.

“Bliss?” she said, onscreen. “Did Marina give you the good news?”

“They want me to be a contestant in the Skinkfest pageant,” Bliss replied. “They want me to get tattooed. Not just a heart or rainbow, but a full head-to-toe bodysuit.”

“I know, sweetheart. . .”

“You heard me say the laser process is practically painless?” Ms. Gretch added.

“It’s real ink,” Bliss protested. “And it’s permanent. I’ll be tattooed for life.”

“We all have to make sacrifices, young lady,” her mother said. “Your father and I certainly have. This is just a test of your dedication. For company and country. . .”

Bliss read those words on the wall as her mother spoke. She briefly doubted the woman’s sanity, but her mother had always been wholly devoted to Majus Arts and Sciences above all else.

“But. . .”

“Management has chosen you for this assignment,” her mother said, stern. “It’s been decided. They’ve assured you a job for life, no matter what. So tell Marina you’re grateful for this opportunity, young lady.”

Bliss lowered her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

When she looked up again, her mother was gone and the screen was blank. The words FOR COMPANY AND COUNTRY appeared to be mocking her.

“This really is an honor,” Ms. Gretch said. She opened a desk drawer and brought out a shoebox. “Here. The company has graciously provided you with the wardrobe you’ll require.”

With great trepidation, Bliss lifted the lid. As part of the grand practical joke her life had become, the contents were what she feared: a pair of bright pink hightops, and two halves of a leastie-- a thong with thin strings, and a pair of pasties shaped like hearts. She wanted to scream, but suppressed the urge.

“I’ve had a topcoat delivered to your desk downstairs,” Ms. Gretch said. “You need to wear this disguise on your train ride home, because Magnus Wolflow will contact you on the way.”

Bliss exhaled. “But it’s only my third day,” she replied.

4

At Ms. Gretch’s suggestion, Bliss used her employee discount to purchase a bottle of Majus’ most potent anti-depressants before she left work.

The pills were experimental, according to the label. Potential side-effects were listed, but she didn’t care. She took three. Ms. Gretch had broken her. Her own mother had broken her. . .

By the time she boarded the bullet, she’d forgotten her problems, and nearly everything else. She wasn’t sure why she was wearing a topcoat and pink hightops, with a leasie underneath. She wasn’t sure where she was going.

She didn’t remember who Quince was, at first.

***

The train finally stopped at the next station, which was their destination.

At Butler Village, Quince led Bliss off the train. Four people were waiting for them on the platform. They were all young females wearing topcoats and bright pink hightops.

“Ladies,” Quince said, “say hey to the girl from Majus, Beautiful Bliss of Wiseman.”

All of them gave Bliss the eye, as if sizing up another pageant contestant. Bliss wondered if they were also wearing thongs and pasties under their coats.

“She’s a looker,” a blonde said. “Pretty as a peach.”

“And these beauties,” Quince continued, “are Hillbilly Jill from the boondocks, Godly Gracie of Galilee, Lainey from Lake Magnolia, and Senorita Bella of Butler.”

They were all pretty girls. Jill, the blonde, was a wannabe biker, who looked like she might have a few tattoos already. Gracie, a brunette, looked like a church-going naif, with bright eyes. Lainey was a redhead with porcelain skin and emerald eyes. And Mirabel was a gorgeous Hispanic girl, who probably lived just south of the tracks.

Quince led them from the station, down the grey street to the north. They walked two abreast, like a lost patrol of secret agents. They followed Quince up the long staircase, and she shepherded them into the same loft apartment Bliss had visited.

Once inside, Quince took off her long topcoat, to reveal her leastie and the bodysuit of tattoos that decorated her flesh like a work of art. Everyone else did likewise; except Bliss, who preferred to stay dressed and observe. And she received a quick education about the status of matters.

The rest of the girls all wore leasties, not surprisingly. They sported a variety of pasties, including stars, suns, and smiley faces. Bliss was surprised to see most of them had been tattooed already, to one degree or another.

Hillbilly Jill’s skin was completely covered from the waist up. Lainey’s legs were both decorated by colorful images, back and front. Mirabel only had her back and one arm done, so far. Only Godly Gracie’s milky skin was still a blank canvas, like Bliss herself.

Quince removed her wig, to reveal her head remained shiny smooth, two days after her latest shave. The others followed suit, to Bliss’ amazement. All their hairstyles were also wigs, Godly Gracie included. Bliss was the lone contestant-- the last one selected-- who hadn’t experienced the straight-razor or laser etcher.

Seeing those girls, with their bald heads like half a carton of eggs and their bodysuits in progress, was a roadmap of her future. She wasn’t sure she could do it, though. Even after agreeing to accept that assignment and meeting her fellow contestants, she felt frozen in place. The pills must’ve been wearing off already.

Max came in from the kitchen, pleased to welcome so many guests to his mad artist’s workshop. He went around the room and greeted every visitor with a hug and kiss, beginning with Quince. When he came to Bliss, still in her topcoat, he didn’t hesitate. When he briefly touched his lips to hers, she experienced a wave of warmth. He whispered in her ear:

“Ready to meet the razor?”

But she didn’t reply.

“Well, it’s nice to have everybody together at last. You all look beautiful, like angels come to earth. This year’s pageant will be life-changing. And I can’t tell you how happy I am to be part of this extravaganza, in the company of such wonderful people.”

There was even a smattering of applause from the contestants, Bliss included.

“After tonight’s ritual, we’ll enjoy a feast of roast beef, fresh vegetables, and chocolate cake for dessert. And as much fine wine as you can handle.”

They clapped again and reacted. It did sound good, Bliss thought.

“So, if we’re ready. . .”

All eyes turned to Bliss. She was the subject of the evening’s ritual, as the only contestant yet to be shaved, in preparation for the application of her bodysuit of tattoos.

Quince crossed to her, as if sensing doubt. She hugged Bliss and kissed her cheek.

“It’s your time to shine,” Quince told her. “You’re safe as a kitten here. There’s good friends and good food for everybody. And don’t forget the feel of the blade. . .”

She guided Bliss to the middle of the open floor. Three cushions from the couch had been placed there and covered by a plain sheet. That was where Bliss would lie, to have her body fully shorn, while everyone watched.

The coffee table sat nearby, with the implements laid out: two straight-razors, scissors, jars of Max’s special gel, and wireless shears. Max knelt down, picked up one of the razors, and used an old-fashioned strop attached to the table to sharpen its blade. Bliss imagined he was her tormentor and those items were his tools of torture.

He met her eyes. “No matter what happens, it’s still an improvement over your day job at Majus, where you’re just another cog in the machine.”

Bliss started to cry.

Because Max was right. After three days, she decided she hated her job at Majus Arts and Sciences. She couldn’t imagine riding the train, eating in the company-approved cafeteria, and sitting at her dull desk for the next fifty years, waiting to retire or die. Her fellow contestants were friendlier than her fellow employees. And Max and Quince were far better people than Mr. Dowdy and Ms. Gretch, or even her own mother.

Max turned on the shears. Instead of a terrifying high whine, they produced a soft hum she found very soothing.

So, Bliss unbuttoned her topcoat and made her choice.