[h3]To bake a lamb, you need to turn on the oven and let it heat up for a while. Once the oven is hot, place the seasoned lamb inside and cook it at a moderate temperature for about three hours. Every thirty minutes, you must turn the meat to ensure it cooks evenly.[/h3] [h3]Carl set his kitchen timer for thirty minutes, took a deep breath, and went to his favorite drawer. The drawer was made of wood, with the letters "BMW" engraved on its sides. When he opened it, a large collection of vinyl records was revealed. The sleeve of the first LP seemed to be made of wood as well and had six recorded sides. When he placed it on the turntable, the first chords began to play, and the opening lyrics urged him to stand up. Instead, Carl did the opposite, sinking into his armchair. Before giving in to sleep, he blinked in a last, rebellious attempt to stay in the waking world. But the comfort of his kitchen timer and his mounting fatigue convinced him to surrender.[/h3] [h3]The second track began with sweet chords that caressed Carl’s ears, gently pulling him from his slumber. His eyes began to make out blurry shapes in his living room, though his eyelids refused to fully open. He felt a refreshing yawn swell within him, though neither his chest nor his mouth moved. Lucidity crept into Carl's senses with the rhythm of the song, and the blurry shapes sharpened into his furniture, his appliances, and something else. A man in a work jumpsuit crouched in his kitchen, peering through the oven window at the lamb and filling out a form on a clipboard. Carl tried to move, but his body wouldn’t respond.[/h3] [h3]“Who are you?” Carl asked, though his mouth never moved.[/h3] [h3]The man approached silently. His face was neutral, gray, calm, and detached. With two long, skeletal fingers, he pressed Carl’s neck to check for a pulse, glanced at his wristwatch, and scribbled a note on his form.[/h3] [h3]“I know you!” Carl’s voice boomed with sudden emotion.[/h3] [h3]The worker’s face broke momentarily into an expression of surprise and fear, but it quickly returned to its neutral state as he continued his task.[/h3] [h3]“Yes, I know you! How could I not? What happened to me? Am I dead?” Carl pressed, his joy invisible. The rush of recognizing his idol lit up his fragile soul.[/h3] [h3]“I’m working on that, Mr. Salabria. Once I finish and approve Forms 305 and 48-B-B, I’ll transfer you to Reception. They’ll explain the next steps.”[/h3] [h3]“Forms? Procedures? What are you doing in this job? You’re meant for greater things! And why are you speaking Spanish?”[/h3] [h3]“Languages are a construct of the living. I need to fill out certain fields on Form 48-B-B,” the worker replied mechanically. “When did you turn on the oven?”[/h3] [h3]“You can’t be serious! You’re wasting your talent on this! I won’t help you. I won’t answer anything!” Carl’s cheeks, incapable of tears, didn’t feel the weight of his disappointment. His body continued to cool, unresponsive to his mounting frustration.[/h3] [h3]“The function of your heart is no longer relevant, Mr. Salabria. I need to complete this transfer within thirty minutes. Afterward, I have another assignment. I don’t know why you think you recognize me, but it doesn’t matter. Please cooperate. I’d hate to wait unnecessarily.”[/h3] [h3]The worker’s call-center-trained voice softened Carl’s nerves, though not his resolve. “You weren’t like this in life. What happened to you?” Carl asked more gently.[/h3] [h3]“Look, Mr. Salabria, if I don’t finish on time, we’ll both have problems. It’s rare for someone to recognize me. My file says I’ve worked in the Supply Sector for decades. Who I was in life isn’t relevant; that’s why Recruitment suppressed my memories. They’ll explain the procedure at Reception.”[/h3] [h3]“You don’t know who you were? You don’t remember? You were important to so many people. You shouldn’t be doing paperwork!”[/h3] [h3]“I don’t need to know who I was to do my job. There are enough problems in the world. Working without memory makes it easier. If I was important to you, don’t delay me. Inefficiency affects my performance reviews. Please, let me move your soul forward.”[/h3] [h3]“Forms? Performance reviews? I can’t leave this world knowing what they did to you. Look at the poster behind you. That’s you.”[/h3] [h3]The worker’s neutral face twitched, one eyebrow raising slightly. He didn’t turn to look, forcing himself to focus on his form. “What time did you turn on the oven, Mr. Salabria?” he repeated, his voice tinged with unease.[/h3] [h3]Carl had never considered himself particularly skilled in life. He wasn’t a great achiever, nor was he adept at cooking lamb. But he had his cleverness. It was all he had left, lying cold and still in his chair. His flame was fading, and now even his cleverness was being stolen.[/h3] [h3]“Fine, fine. Let’s fill out your form. I don’t remember exactly when I turned on the oven, but it was the same time I started the record that’s playing. Check the tracklist on the sleeve; you can figure it out.”[/h3] [h3]The worker approached the turntable, lifting the record sleeve with his free hand. As his eyes scanned the cover, his other eyebrow joined the first, and his jaw dropped, revealing a row of white teeth. He turned sharply toward the poster on the wall, his clipboard and forms clattering to the floor. His skeletal fingers traced his face as if to confirm the features staring back at him from the poster.[/h3] [h3]“It’s me. That’s... me. Did I write this song? You know my life, don’t you?”[/h3] [h3]Carl’s invisible smile widened. His cleverness—his one remaining gift—had worked.[/h3] [h3]“Yes, it’s you! You wrote this song and so many others. You inspired generations with your work. You even inspired me. Your music helped me through my hardest times.”[/h3] [h3]“I inspired generations? With music? Help me understand this. My file says I killed a sheriff. Someone in Human Resources told me that’s why I got assigned to this job.”[/h3] [h3]“You didn’t kill a sheriff. It’s just a song.”[/h3] [h3]“Don’t mess with me. This is serious. Those who were inspiring artists in life usually get cushy managerial positions—cedar desks, air conditioning. And now you’re telling me I didn’t kill anyone and I inspired people to live in peace?”[/h3] [h3]“Yes! Not just that. Your music carried a message of peace and harmony, of understanding and the fight against oppression. Honestly, I think HR might’ve screwed you over.”[/h3] [h3]“Screwed me over? With these credentials, I should be on the board of directors! Those idiots in HR thought the song was a confession, and now I’m stuck with this job for eternity!” The worker’s calm demeanor cracked. His bony hands clenched the clipboard, and a thick vein bulged across his forehead.[/h3] [h3]“I’m really sorry, brother. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll help you finish the forms. Let’s get it done quickly so you can finish early today.” Carl’s attempt to soothe him only fueled the worker’s frustration.[/h3] [h3]“Forms. Forms? Look what I think of your forms!” The worker tossed the 305 and 48-B-B to the floor and began stomping and kicking them noisily around the living room.[/h3] [h3]Carl tried to reach for the scattered papers, but his frozen, lifeless body wouldn’t comply. Suddenly, the worker stopped his rampage. He picked up the forms, tilted his head to the side, and flashed Carl a smile that he instantly recognized. Slowly, the worker’s skeletal hands tore the papers in half. As the paper ripped, the sound of seven trumpets blared, deafening Carl’s near-useless ears. The noise reverberated, shaking the house’s walls, before subtly morphing into the soun of Carl’s kitchen timer.[/h3] [h3]His stiff eyelids flew open with a jolt, revealing thirsty eyes. His blue lips parted in a desperate gasp for air and water. His dry nostrils flared, igniting with the scents of a fossilized, dead world—buried, stored, extracted, and distilled. His body catapulted from the armchair, executing an awkward pirouette that sent all his joints cracking painfully. Dizzy and unsteady, he staggered through his house like a clumsy dancer until he reached the oven and turned off the gas. The oven flame hadn’t even ignited.[/h3] [h3]Carl stumbled to the door, shoved it open, and collapsed on his doostep, gulping down the fresh air. As his lungs refilled with life, his dry eyes and ringing ears focused on three little birds descending from the sky, singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true. At that moment, Carl knew that he should not worry about a thing. Cause every little thing, gonna be all right.[/h3]
