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+====== Severance: The Lexington Letter (Transcript) ======
+[//Transcriber’s note: The free// [[severance-_the_lexington_letter|Lexington Letter]] //e-book is formatted for viewing on a narrow screen and the original line lengths have been preserved for this transcription.//]
+TO: JIM M (jm@topekastar.com)\\
+FROM: DARIA T (dt@topekastar.com)\\
+SENT: November 12 at 12:43 PM\\
+SUBJECT LINE: Lumon letter\\
+Hey Jim,\\
+I received the letter below from a Severed employee at Lumon.\\
+I also scanned the employee handbook that she mentions in her\\
+letter here too, so that’s attached.\\
+The whole thing seems pretty out there… but perhaps worth\\
+pursuing? What do you think?\\
+Daria\\
+—\\
+Daria Thorne, Reporter\\
+//The Topeka Star//\\
+Attachment 1 of 2:\\
+[//Transcriber’s note: Scanned attachment of printed pages//]
+PLEASE READ IMMEDIATELY\\
+Daria Thorne\\
+c/o //The Topeka Star//\\
+Saturday, November 10\\
+Dear Ms. Thorne,\\
+My name is Peg Kincaid. Until yesterday, I was an\\
+employee at Lumon Industries here in Topeka. I’m\\
+writing on behalf of myself and my friend, Peggy K,\\
+who is now no longer with us. Maybe it’s strange to call\\
+her my friend, but it’s how I think of her. Depending on\\
+how much you know about Lumon and what they do,\\
+maybe you already know what I mean.\\
+I chose to reach out to you because I’ve seen, among\\
+other things, your thorough coverage of the Dorner\\
+truck incident on November third. I thought about\\
+going to the cops with what I’m about to tell you, but\\
+people say Lumon has a lot of connections with the\\
+police and City Hall and so I don’t think they would\\
+believe me anyway. I hope you believe me. I really\\
+need someone to believe me.\\
+\\
+With that in mind, I’m going to try to give you the full\\
+story. Forgive me if I get a bit rambly… I tend to go on\\
+and on when I’m nervous. And I’m really very nervous\\
+about this. Right now, I’m staying in a motel because I\\
+can’t shake the feeling that someone has been watching\\
+me. The same black cars seem to always be parked\\
+next to mine. And for the last few weeks, my mail has\\
+been all crumpled when I’ve gotten it at night, like\\
+someone’s digging through it. It all feels so off.\\
+So yes, I just want to get this all written down, in case\\
+something happens. Something beyond what’s already\\
+happened. Alright. Here goes:\\
+As a bit of background (I think, in your field, you call\\
+it "color"), up until about two years ago, I was a school\\
+bus driver for Clover Elementary down off Route 2.\\
+I’d been there for about twelve years. I loved my job. I\\
+love kids, even though I don’t have any of my own. And\\
+I sincerely believe they liked me too. At some point,\\
+the kids learned that I was the youngest driver on the\\
+school’s payroll (even though I was already fifty), so they\\
+gave me the nickname "Baby Driver," a reference to the\\
+beloved action film of the same name. But despite this\\
+fun camaraderie and my relative youth, I’ll confess I was\\
+starting to feel burned out. My route had gotten longer, I\\
+had a few real misbehavers, all that stuff.\\
+It all came to a boiling point one day in February.\\
+It was a cold day; the kind I used to call a "booger-\\
+freezer" to get a rise out of the kids until a\\
+fundamentalist mom heard about it and complained. I\\
+was near the end of my afternoon route when, through\\
+no fault of my own, my bus hit black ice. I pumped\\
+the brakes, as per protocol, but our momentum kept\\
+us sliding and for the first time in my career in child\\
+transpo, I landed my rig in a ditch.\\
+All the kids screamed. I wanted to scream too, but\\
+you know how it is — gotta be the adult. Thank the\\
+good lord no one was hurt, just shook up. But we were\\
+stuck for nearly two hours, with the heat knocked out.\\
+The kids were crying, scared, cold, asking for their\\
+mommies. We had three urination events, which in the\\
+low temperature proved a real issue. Finally, another\\
+bus was able to come by and get my kids. I remained\\
+with the vehicle (again, protocol), and listened to the\\
+radio to try to stay warm. I don’t know, it made sense\\
+at the time.\\
+Now this is the part that, when I look back, still makes\\
+me squirm. While I was sitting there waiting for the\\
+tow, boogers freezing, I distinctly remember thinking\\
+to myself, "Fuck this job". I may have even said it out\\
+loud, I’m not sure. But I either thought it or said it,\\
+and right at that moment, as if it had heard me, this ad\\
+came on the radio. It was an employment recruiting\\
+ad, but they were weirdly vague about the job. Lot of\\
+flowery talk about "making history" and "rethinking\\
+the notion of work." I was sort of tuning out until the\\
+end when they said the name of the company: Lumon\\
+Industries. I knew who they were — I’d been using\\
+their deodorant since puberty — but I didn’t know\\
+they had a branch in Topeka. I remember thinking\\
+"Well, that was weird".\\
+Anyway, two hours later, the tow truck finally came\\
+and yanked my rig from the ditch. I got home five\\
+hours later than usual, with an angry voicemail from\\
+my supervisor accusing me of driving recklessly. I\\
+wasn’t asking for a medal or anything, but a word of\\
+acknowledgement over the hell I’d just been through\\
+would have felt more appropriate than a chewing out.\\
+That night, I told myself I needed to start looking for a\\
+new job.\\
+I was off the next day, and I went downtown to run\\
+a few errands. On the way home, I passed what I\\
+realized must be the new Lumon site, which had been\\
+under construction for the past few months. It was a\\
+big building that looked almost like a mall. I thought\\
+back to when I’d heard their ad while shivering in that\\
+freezing bus. And even though I had ice cream in the\\
+trunk, I found myself turning into the parking lot. I\\
+parked, and I went in.\\
+\\
+At first I figured no high tech company would hire\\
+someone like me. I mean, I only got through a few\\
+semesters at Kansas State. But the nice Lumon lady\\
+who greeted me told me that didn’t matter. She said\\
+that I could get a great office job, incredible benefits,\\
+manageable hours, and all I had to do was this tiny\\
+little procedure called Severance.\\
+I’m guessing you know what that is. Well, I didn’t — \\
+remember, this was a few years back and it took them\\
+longer than it probably should have to explain it to me.\\
+They told me that after a screening process, I’d have a\\
+small, totally painless chip inserted into my brain. That\\
+freaked me out for a beat, but they assured me it was\\
+easier than getting a cavity filled. Then they told me that\\
+the chip would make it so I wouldn’t remember work.\\
+That was the real benefit here: I’d have absolutely no\\
+memory of work. Never. I’d just go into the office\\
+and the chip would turn on in my brain, activating\\
+my work self — my "innie" is what they called it.\\
+That person would do all the work. And then when\\
+I’d leave work, the chip would turn off, and I’d be\\
+back and have the whole rest of my day ahead of me.\\
+No memory of work and four times the pay? Despite\\
+it being quite a drastic procedure, all that made it\\
+feel like, well — a no brainer. Or, ha, a half-brainer?\\
+Because of Severance? You get it? Sorry. My dad\\
+always hated it when I joked when I was nervous, but\\
+here we are!\\
+So where was I? Right. Back to Lumon. I got the\\
+procedure, I was Severed, all that, and it was totally\\
+fine. They even gave me a really nice four-cheese\\
+panini afterward because my procedure time slot\\
+butted up against the lunch hour. I thought, "This is so\\
+great! What a great place to work!"\\
+I was wrong. Very very wrong. But I wouldn’t learn\\
+that for another two years.\\
+I started at Lumon the following Monday and settled\\
+into this nice day-to-day routine. I’d show up at work,\\
+swipe my fancy Lumon badge and then change out of\\
+my outdoor clothes and into some Lumon neutrals, as\\
+they call’em which means no labels, tags, patterns,\\
+no words at all, on anything. Company policy. Lumon\\
+wanted a complete divide between innies and us\\
+people on the outside, a.k.a. the outies. No written\\
+word, no messages back and forth were allowed — all\\
+of that is what you sign up for when you get Severed.\\
+In my orientation, they even talked about these code\\
+detectors built into the elevators that would sense\\
+written words. It was a fancy place.\\
+Then, after changing my clothes, I’d take the elevator\\
+down to the Severed floor in the basement and then\\
+— nothing. Sweet sweet nothing. In the middle of\\
+the elevator ride, my Severance chip would switch\\
+my consciousness over to my innie, this whole\\
+other personality, with no memory of my life here\\
+in Topeka. She could walk and talk and all that, but\\
+didn’t remember, say, my third-grade teacher’s name,\\
+or me falling off a horse and breaking my arm when I\\
+was eight, or when my ex-husband told me he wanted\\
+a divorce. Lucky girl.\\
+She was ME, but NOT me.\\
+So yeah, my innie would wake up and head to work\\
+— doing whatever it is my innie did down there. Some\\
+desk job with data, I’d been told. And meanwhile, the\\
+other half of the brain that is, ME — would basically\\
+get to just take a nap for the day. At the end of the\\
+workday, I’d come to, in that same elevator, maybe a\\
+little tired after what I assume was a hard day’s work,\\
+but otherwise none the wiser for earning that paycheck.\\
+And that’s how it went, day in and day out, for two\\
+years. Until one particular Tuesday, when I messed it\\
+all up. Or, actually, we messed it all up.\\
+That Tuesday, I got off work — in other words, I came\\
+to in that elevator — and went to my locker. Nothing\\
+odd there. But then, as I was pulling on my jacket, I felt\\
+something in my pants pocket — a surprise, since we’re\\
+not supposed to bring anything in or out. I pulled out\\
+a half-sheet of typing paper, neatly folded into pocket\\
+size. Seeing that the upstairs security guard was busy\\
+watching soccer on his phone, I opened it up.\\
+Now, at this point, I need to back up again and give you\\
+more "color," but I promise it’s for a very important\\
+reason. My sister Meryl is only about eleven months\\
+older than me. We actually were born in the same year,\\
+funnily enough. We’ve since grown apart as time’s gone\\
+by, but as kids we were really close. In fact, we were so\\
+close that we invented a secret language together, called\\
+Puglish. We’d write long letters to each other about\\
+what boys we liked or teachers we hated in Puglish\\
+so no one else could understand. I say "language,"\\
+but actually, all we did was replace each letter with\\
+a different symbol. "A" was a seahorse. "B" was a\\
+lightning bolt. "X" was a pair of boobs, which got us\\
+in trouble once or twice, but not too often because it’s\\
+an uncommon letter and we were sneaky. Anyway, like\\
+I said, Meryl and I had grown apart over time, and I\\
+hadn’t thought about Puglish, let alone read or written\\
+it, for more than thirty years.\\
+So, on that Tuesday at Lumon, you can imagine my\\
+surprise when I unfolded the paper and found it lined\\
+with rows of little seahorses, lightning bolts, and other\\
+distantly familiar symbols. There was even a boobs in\\
+the second paragraph. I stood there, baffled at how a\\
+full note in perfect Puglish had ended up in my pocket\\
+while I was down on the Severed floor.\\
+I took the note home and looked it over. It was strange how\\
+quickly my memory of our code came back to me, and I\\
+was able to read the message almost as if it had been in\\
+English. Understanding its contents proved a little harder:\\
+//Dear Peggy K,\\
+I don’t know what this language is, or why it’s in\\
+my head. It’s been coming to me slowly over the\\
+past few weeks. I find myself writing it at my desk. I\\
+thought if anyone would know what it was, maybe it\\
+would be you. I don’t know if this will even pass the\\
+code detectors, but I felt I had to try. I know this is\\
+a breach in protocol. Please don’t be angry with me.\\
+If you cannot tell, I am your innie. I live down here in\\
+the Macrodata Refining Department, with my three\\
+co-workers. I have often thought of you and what your\\
+life might be like out there, and why I exist in the first\\
+place. Why does one choose to get Severed?\\
+Maybe this language isn’t real and I’m writing\\
+nonsense. But if you can read this, I would love for\\
+you to write me back. I understand if that is not\\
+possible. I do not mean any harm.\\
+Sincerely, your innie,\\
+Peggy K\\ //
+— \\
+Well, this knocked me on my ass, I’ll be honest. I\\
+hadn’t really given my innie too much thought before\\
+then. Like, I knew she was down there, doing her thing,\\
+but part of what I loved so much about this whole\\
+Severance thing is that I didn’t need to think about it.\\
+But then there she was — Peggy, my innie, writing\\
+to me. In Puglish. I stared at it for a long time. It also\\
+tripped me up because I hadn’t been called Peggy since\\
+elementary school. I’d been told during training that\\
+my innie would be like a little kid, with little to no life\\
+experiences, but I didn’t think it’d be so… obvious.\\
+I stared at that note for the rest of the night. I thought\\
+of her, or me, or a different version of me I guess,\\
+down there in the dark, on the Severed floor, clearly\\
+desperate for more information.\\
+I was really torn about what to do. I loved my job, or\\
+what I knew about it, and I didn’t wanna mess that up.\\
+Writing messages to my innie was definitely against\\
+Lumon policy, there’s no question about that. Was it\\
+possible a code invented by two grade-schoolers could\\
+be enough to trick the detectors? Granted, it was a\\
+new technology, but still!\\
+To this day, a part of me wishes I’d done what I\\
+was supposed to: Call my Lumon supervisor, Mr.\\
+Alvarado, and report my innie’s infraction. But\\
+sometimes, at the end of the day, I’d come out of the\\
+elevator feeling, I don’t know… different than I’d\\
+ever felt before. Maybe a little giddy or sometimes all\\
+wound up, or scared even, and it made me wonder:\\
+What were they doing down there with my body?\\
+So, the next morning, I decided to write her back — \\
+just this once — and ask her.\\
+She wrote back right away — I got a message in my\\
+pocket that next night. She told me she worked as a\\
+Macrodata Refiner. When I asked her what that means,\\
+she told me it involved working at a computer, putting\\
+these special numbers into special bins, which made\\
+no sense to me — that’s a JOB?? And I’m making four\\
+times as much as when I was driving a bus?\\
+Once the floodgates were opened, I couldn’t help\\
+myself — I wrote back to her more and more, asking\\
+follow-up questions. She responded with such a weird\\
+description that I had to write it down here:\\
+//The best I’ve come up with is that the numbers make\\
+you feel things. It’s not an individual number, but a\\
+whole cluster of them, and after a while, they’ll sort\\
+of *throb* a certain emotion at you. Sometimes it’s\\
+joy or sadness or worry. Sometimes it’s obvious,\\
+other times more subtle. Each type of number\\
+has its own designation, like the angry ones are\\
+called MA. Once you’ve identified the numbers, you\\
+surround them with the arrow on your computer\\
+and into a bin they go.\\ //
+I want to take a moment, Ms. Thorne, and say that th1S\\
+sounded as nuts to me as it does to you. These numbers\\
+made her feel things? Peggy tried to help me out, and\\
+describe it more, but the more detail she’d go into, the\\
+more confused I got. I asked her if the numbers ever\\
+ended. She told me yes, when you finish a file. I guess\\
+there’s a whole wall of them on her computer screen,\\
+but eventually, the wall runs out, and all the numbers\\
+have been sorted, and that’s that file completed.\\
+Peggy told me that they get prizes when they finish the\\
+files: Some weird stuff, like a melon bar and something\\
+called a "music-dance experience" and a waffle party.\\
+It all sounded pretty infantilizing to me, but I hope they\\
+at least get different types of syrups to go along with\\
+those waffles.\\
+It wasn’t always me drilling her though — she also\\
+asked me things too. And over and over again, I was\\
+beside myself with how much it felt like I was talking\\
+to a kid-version of, well, myself. She wanted to know\\
+everything about outside life, like what it felt like to\\
+be drunk, or asleep (I’d never thought of it before, but\\
+she’d never been asleep, because I do all that on the\\
+outside!), or to fall in love (that one was a toughie to\\
+answer, just ask my ex-husband) or to have someone\\
+you love die. It was strange to see how the procedure\\
+filtered her knowledge. She knew what beer was but\\
+couldn’t name a specific brand. She knew she lived in\\
+America but couldn’t draw a map of it to save her life.\\
+She knew that movies exist, but not who David Niven\\
+was (despite him being by far my longest-standing\\
+crush). It was like she’d seen only the vaguest shape of\\
+the world through a foggy window.\\
+She asked me what snow felt like (I sat on that one\\
+for a while, and finally came up with holding a cold\\
+cotton shirt that melts in your hands), and if I knew\\
+how to ride a bike. (I do. Not very well, but I don’t tip\\
+over either.) And if I ever regretted getting Severed. To\\
+be honest, I hadn’t — until I thought more about her\\
+sitting down there, in the dark.\\
+So anyway, yes, Peggy and I wrote these letters back\\
+and forth for, I don’t know, maybe three or four weeks.\\
+Not every day, but enough that it started to feel like…\\
+this sounds crazy, but like I’d found a new friend. She\\
+made me see my life in a different way. I used to think\\
+my life was boring, and pretty mundane, but Peggy\\
+found all the little details I’d mention fascinating, even\\
+glamorous. Once I painted my nails hot pink (which is\\
+really not my style), just to see what she’d think. That\\
+night, she wrote me back saying tears had sprung to her\\
+eyes, our nails were so beautiful.\\
+Sorry, I could go on forever. Like I told you, I ramble\\
+when I get nervous and I’m jumping out of my chair\\
+over here. No joke — Housekeeping just knocked on\\
+my motel room door and I shrieked.\\
+So anyway — Me and Peggy kept thinking we’d get\\
+caught, but nothing seemed to come of it. Peggy grew\\
+concerned that their head of security, Mr. Dooley — a\\
+"pale little man with a terrifying smile" was watching\\
+her more closely than usual. She described seeing him at\\
+the far end of the hall when she’d leave for the day, "Just\\
+standing there, smiling. Like he knew what I was doing\\
+but wanted to play with me a while before dragging me\\
+to the Break Room." I asked her what the Break Room\\
+was, but she never told me. Despite the forbidden nature\\
+of our whole interaction, this seemed to be a specific\\
+topic she was afraid to broach.\\
+Still, those code detectors never seemed to bother us\\
+or pick up the Puglish. If they had, I would’ve cut it\\
+off, played dumb, blamed my own idiocy — and never\\
+Peggy’s — but it never happened.\\
+But then we get to that morning of Friday, November\\
+rd, which is why I’m writing to you in the first place.\\
+I come-to in the elevator as usual that night and check\\
+my pockets, just like I’ve been doing for months\\
+— and there’s another note from Peggy. And she’s\\
+really excited. She finished her file, which was named\\
+"Lexington," earlier that afternoon, at 2:30 pm. She\\
+says she’s been so excited to tell me about it that she\\
+could barely wait to go home, even if it meant cutting\\
+her melon bar party (???) short.\\
+She told me that the Lexington file had been extra\\
+complicated and particularly exhausting to do (this made\\
+sense to me — I’d felt fried for the last few weeks after\\
+coming-to in the elevator and didn’t know why). She said\\
+she’d pushed through and completed it and that everyone\\
+at Lumon, including her boss and her boss’ boss, was\\
+thrilled with her work. They’d even given her an extra\\
+melon bar party to cash in later in the week. Whoopee,\\
+right? Again, I don’t fully get this whole refining-files\\
+thing, but a big win at work makes me look good too,\\
+so what the hell. And our whole body just felt JAZZED\\
+when I came to in the elevator, which wasn’t a bad\\
+feeling either. I drove home and went for a jog for the\\
+first time in weeks. I felt like I could tackle the world.\\
+Later that same night, I’m watching TV and I see you,\\
+Ms. Thorne, on the news. Your face was as serious as\\
+I’ve ever seen it, your voice steadfast and resolute, as\\
+you reported about the truck that had been blown up in\\
+New York at 2:32 pm that day. The Dorner Therapeutics\\
+truck. Dorner, of course, is a major competitor of my\\
+now former employer Lumon. God, watching that\\
+footage made my heart stop. Seeing bystanders running\\
+for cover, the destroyed street, all of it seemed like hell.\\
+That’s when a sudden, intrusive thought dumped a hard\\
+knot right into the pit of my stomach. I looked back at\\
+my earlier note from Peggy, and read again when she’d\\
+completed the Lexington File.\\
+__The time had been 2:30 pm.__\\
+Two minutes before the bomb went off.\\
+I was stunned. I tried to tell myself I was being\\
+paranoid, but I couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming.\\
+Two people were burned alive in a truck. Four others\\
+were dead, too. No explanation, no terrorist group\\
+claiming credit. The next day, Dorner said that some of\\
+their devices had been destroyed. Their prototypes or\\
+whatever. It almost seems like this was some kind of\\
+corporate espionage.\\
+It all seems like too much of a coincidence, doesn’t it?\\
+Is that why these numbers are making the innies down\\
+there feel things? Because they’re dropping bombs or\\
+blowing things up from down there? What had I gotten\\
+my body — and my innie, __my friend__ — into?\\
+I barely slept that weekend. On Monday morning, I\\
+wrote Peggy another note, asking her to send me any\\
+information she could about the file she’d just refined.\\
+Told her it was super important. She didn’t know\\
+anything about the Dorner truck down there, of course,\\
+but I tried to press her more about the numbers. I asked\\
+her: What do her bosses tell her about the numbers?\\
+About Lexington in particular? What is this data they’re\\
+refining? Not much, she said, other than it being very\\
+important work. Finally, I worked up the nerve to tell\\
+her about the truck. It took me over an hour to write\\
+that note. I told her I couldn’t be sure there was a\\
+connection, but that the timing felt too close to ignore.\\
+I told her not to refine another number down there, no\\
+matter the consequences. I told her that, if I was right,\\
+then Lumon had been using us both for something\\
+insidious and horrifying. I told her none of this was her\\
+fault. And that I loved her.\\
+I didn’t hear back.\\
+A day passed, then three. Every day I went down,\\
+hoping to feel the familiar pressure of a note in my\\
+pants pocket as I came back up. But there was nothing.\\
+Was she mad at me? Horrified by my claim? Or was it\\
+something else? Was there something stopping Peggy\\
+from responding?\\
+It’s a funny thing, worrying about your innie. I was\\
+leaving each day without a scratch on me, and I was\\
+certainly still alive, which meant that physically Peggy\\
+had to be fine. But her silence every evening grew\\
+more terrifying as the days turned to weeks. I wanted\\
+to write her again, ask what was going on — but\\
+was Lumon on to us? If so, another note could spell\\
+disaster for my dear friend.\\
+One Tuesday, I emerged to find my hair wet. A note\\
+on my windshield from Lumon informed me that my\\
+innie had had a "visually comedic but painless mishap\\
+with the water cooler". I was given a gift card to\\
+Murray’s All-Day Breakfast Buffet as an apology for\\
+the inconvenience. That night, over hashbrowns, my\\
+mind raced. What the hell were they doing to her down\\
+there each day? How could I help? Should I resign?\\
+Since Lumon was the only place she was alive, quitting\\
+would essentially mean killing her. Surely, I couldn’t\\
+do that, no matter how bad things had gotten.\\
+It was two weeks later when, upon ascending for the\\
+evening, I felt something thick and firm tucked in the\\
+back of my waistband. I struggled to show no emotion\\
+as I went to my locker, retrieved my personal items,\\
+and went out to my car. When I was safely off Lumon\\
+property, I breathlessly pulled it out and saw a faded,\\
+spiral-bound booklet with a teal cover marked "The\\
+Macrodata Refiner’s Orientation Booklet." A note was\\
+taped to the front, written in the King’s English in my\\
+very own handwriting:\\
+**Dooley found your last note. Been in Break Room.\\
+Don’t know how long.\\
+Think you’re right about Lexington.\\
+Lumon updating code detectors but they’re down\\
+today. Hope this booklet gives clarity.\\
+Be careful. I love you too.\\ **
+I opened the booklet and was startled to find an eerily\\
+chipper creature smiling up at me from the page. He\\
+looked — pardon my indelicacy — like a little dildo with\\
+translucent skin revealing a spiral-shaped digestive tract\\
+leading down to his anus. After reading his intro, I\\
+learned that this was "Sevy," a personified Severance chip\\
+and the internal mascot Lumon uses to train its innies.\\
+Describing this document is probably a fool’s errand,\\
+so I’m enclosing it here for you to look at too. I’ve\\
+spent hours going over it, trying to decipher what the\\
+numbers might mean, as explained by the all-knowing\\
+Sevy. Maybe you can figure out more, ’cuz to me this\\
+whole thing feels like it was written for a child. That’s\\
+all you’ll tell me about what all this stuff means? The\\
+only thing the handbook says about it is, "We know\\
+you may be curious about what the numbers mean.\\
+However, knowing the true meaning behind the\\
+numbers could inhibit your natural intuition."\\
+Well, my natural freakin’ intuition is telling me\\
+something horrible is happening here.\\
+After that, I didn’t hear from Peggy for a week. I\\
+didn’t write anything either, worried that Lumon’s\\
+updated code detectors would be able to read Puglish\\
+and I’d land her back in the "Break Room", which I\\
+could tell by now wasn’t a fun place with bean bag\\
+chairs and a pinball machine.\\
+This brings us to last Friday morning. I sat in my car\\
+in the Lumon lot, trying to mentally prepare for my\\
+strange daily descent, and wondering what horrors the\\
+day held for my dear Peggy. For some reason, I thought\\
+of that moment on the bus, skidding across the ice\\
+with the kids screaming behind me. Knowing I was\\
+responsible for whatever was going to happen to those\\
+children in the coming seconds. As their screams rang\\
+in my head, I did something that contradicted my better\\
+judgment. I grabbed a fast-food receipt out of my cup\\
+holder and hurriedly wrote a note in Puglish. It was a\\
+very quick note. All it said was //"Are you okay?"//\\
+I went into work and descended in the elevator as\\
+usual, trying not to look nervous as I went down.\\
+When I came back up, my heart was RACING, my\\
+palms were sweaty — though of course I didn’t know\\
+why. More troublingly, I felt a dry clump of something\\
+in my mouth. I looked at my watch: 9:10 am. Only ten\\
+minutes had passed since I’d gone down.\\
+Trying to look casual and avoiding eye contact with\\
+the security guard, I made a beeline for my locker.\\
+There, I deftly spat out the object in my mouth, which\\
+I found was a wadded-up sheet of paper. Unable to\\
+wait, I opened it and read:\\
+//Peg,\\
+Leave now. Get somewhere safe. They will try to\\
+follow.\\
+Nothing they say is real.\\
+Distribute the training booklet. Answers are there if\\
+you look.\\
+Thank you for my life. You were the best part of it.\\
+I’ll be with you always,\\
+Peggy K\\ //
+— \\
+And that was it.\\
+I called Mr. Alvarado and quit on the spot. I left\\
+Topeka without returning home.\\
+I only wish I could talk to Peggy again, tell her that I\\
+was going to get help for her and for all the Severed\\
+people down there, and that somehow… somehow I’d\\
+get the word out about what Lumon is doing. That\\
+attack killed six people, and I can’t even begin to tell\\
+you why — even though I may have been the one (or\\
+two) who pulled the trigger.\\
+But the thing that hurts the most is the only way I\\
+could ever talk to Peggy again is to go back to Lumon\\
+to switch my Severance chip back on… and I can’t do\\
+that again. Not ever.\\
+So instead, here I am, writing to you. I considered\\
+putting this up on social media, but I have about\\
+sixteen friends on there, including my ex-husband, and\\
+figured you could get the word out faster than all that.\\
+I hope so anyway. For me and for Peggy.\\
+Thank you for your time, Ms. Thorne. I look forward\\
+to hearing from you as soon as possible. My cell is\\
+-555-4332. Please hurry.\\
+Very sincerely,\\
+Peg Kincaid\\
+\\
+[End of Scanned Pages Attachment]\\
+\\
+[Email from Jim Milchick replying to Daria Thorne]\\
+\\
+Jim M (jm@topekastar.com)\\
+Re: Lumon Letter, November 12 at 12:43 PM\\
+TO: Daria T (dt@topekastar.com)\\
+FROM: Jim M (jm@topekastar.com)\\
+SENT: November 13 at 10:03 AM\\
+SUBJECT: RE: Lumon letter\\
+Hey Daria,\\
+Read through this letter. Interesting stuff but all, as you said,\\
+pretty "out there"\\
+I don’t think we have the resources right now to put you on this\\
+type of story. Besides, seems more like a disgruntled employee\\
+making stuff up. I called over to a source I trust implicitly at\\
+Lumon and it sounds like she was let go because of too many\\
+absences.\\
+Let’s have you focus on the high school basketball playoffs, as\\
+discussed.\\
+Thanks,\\
+Jim\\
+— \\
+TO: Jim M (jm@topekastar.com)\\
+FROM: Daria T (dt@topekastar.com)\\
+SENT: November 13 at 10:08 am\\
+SUBJECT: RE: Re: Lumon letter\\
+You’re sure? I can still file that story and then move onto this.\\
+These allegations, if true, are pretty astonishing.\\
+DT\\
+— \\
+Jim M (jm@topekastar.com)\\
+Re: Lumon Letter, November 12 at 12:43 PM\\
+TO: Daria T (dt@topekastar.com)\\
+FROM: Jim M (jm@topekastar.com)\\
+SENT: November 13 at 1:03 pm\\
+SUBJECT: RE: Re: Re: Lumon letter\\
+Too late anyway. Just saw this — from Carolyn over in Obits:\\
+**Margaret "Peg" Kincaid, 54.** //Peg Kincaid passed away from\\
+complications from a car accident on November 11th. She is\\
+survived by her sister, Meryl Rasmussen, of Tacoma, WA, and\\
+a group of supportive and loving friends throughout the Topeka,\\
+KS area. A dedicated school bus driver for several decades,\\
+Peg enjoyed bridge, spy novels, gardening, cats, and David\\
+Niven films. She will be missed by all who knew her. A memorial\\
+service will be on November 20th at 10 am. In lieu of flowers,\\
+please consider a donation to the Topeka Humane Society.//\\
+Tough break. Sorry. Not to sound too harsh here, but all this\\
+might be for the best… her whole letter felt really loose and it’s\\
+not like we want to get into a libel suit with Lumon. You may\\
+remember what happened with the Nashville Tribune when\\
+they printed what they thought was a well-sourced exposé on\\
+Lumon’s feeding tube devices: They got sued into oblivion and\\
+folded six months later.\\
+Please send me those basketball pages ASAP though. I want to\\
+run them in tomorrow’s edition.\\
+Jim\\
+— \\
+Jim Milchick, Editor\\
+//The Topeka Star//\\
+\\
+\\
+{{tag>Transcripts Writings}}

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