Severance: The Lexington Letter (Transcript)

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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\\ 
3rd, 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\\ 
785-555-4332. 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//\\ 
\\ 
\\ 


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