Z.

"Tell me you brought the pail." "The pail?" "The pail." "What pail?" "You didn't bring it?" "You mean the bucket?" "It's a pail." "'Pail?'" "You didn't bring it." "I thought you were." "I told you to bring it." "You said, 'Bring the pale,'" "Oh my god." "It's a bucket. 'Pail'?" "Well go back and get it." "No." "We came all this way and you didn't bring it?" "I'm not going all the way back down." "Oh my god." "Why didn't you bring it?" "I would have but I asked you so I thought you were." "I would have if I knew what you were talking about." "I asked you, and you didn't. So go get it." "I'm not going." "It's your fault. You should go." "It's not my fault. You're the...

You receive a notice in the mail. You know the kind. The official looking ones. They're a little heavy, and the return address at the top indicates the notice originates from a high level bureaucratic agency. There's a long barcode along the bottom, and a serial number for tracking purposes.  This is a notice of import and significance, and you weren't expecting it. You're a little worried to open it. But you do. The fear of the consequences of ignoring a notice of this gravity outweighs the consequences of knowing what it contains. When you open it, it does not disappoint. You withdraw a series of folded pages, documents, and a return envelope, addressed to the same bureaucratic agency that sent it. You aren't sure where to begin. But one of the pages catches your eye. "NOTICE OF COMPULSORY TERMINAL DEPARTURE." Below that ominous-looking heading is a diatribe of jargon and legalese. The typeface gets smaller and smaller the further down the page it goes. ...