Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett Page A

is around 20. Humans grow accustomed to high levels of pleasure fairly quickly, and these days, young people are inundated with pleasure. Binging is the order of the day. If you binge enough, on food or media or whatever, you become desensitized. Nothing satisfies anymore.”
    “What about, like, my Mom dying? Think that might have something to do with it?”
    “It’s just an excuse. You’re jaded, Sheldon. Nothing unusual. It’s sort of boring.”
    “Whatever.”
    “Yeah. Whatever.” Sam stood up. “I’m gonna go home and feed your cat. At least he eats the food that’s put out for him.”
     
    *
     
    The temperature drops immediately.
    Jack. He must have snuck back after he left the warehouse. How long does he plan to leave me in here?
    There’s a camera that points right at the freezer door. All I have to do is ask Frank to watch the recording tomorrow, and Jack will be fired. Maybe even charged.
    It’s so dark.
    For some reason, this reminds me of standing on that stool, in the shed I share with Sam. I was able to see in there, of course, and I could have left if I wanted. But I was trapped all the same. In a sense, Sam came and let me out. I don’t think he’s coming, this time.
    I knock on the door again, and yell. I knock for at least five minutes. My knuckles begin to hurt, and I switch to my left, but it becomes sore even quicker. My throat feels raw. I’m already shivering. I stick my hands in my armpits, and start kicking. Eventually, someone will walk by and see whatever’s keeping the door shut. Someone will hear the banging.
    I don’t know who, though. I’m the only one on in Grocery, and other than Produce the only ones with any reason to come into the warehouse are Meat employees. And who’s working in Meat tonight?
    Eric.
    Could he and Jack be in on this together? Maybe. Or maybe this wasn’t Jack at all—maybe Eric saw me enter the freezer, and acted alone. He seemed to be trying to send me some sort of message, with the story about the soldier in Afghanistan. Perhaps this is another message.
    Jack, or Eric? Or both?
    Will they let me out? Would either of them actually let me die in here?
    The longer I’m trapped, the more likely it seems. My teeth are chattering. When I try to knock it’s like 1000 needles being driven into my knuckles. I feel like I’m standing outside in the middle of January with no coat on.
    I fumble in the dark until I find my cart, and I slam it against the door. I bring it back, and slam it again. I have to stop—my fingers are sticking to the cart’s handle. Normally there are gloves in Ralph’s desk, but I couldn’t find any earlier. Maybe Jack took them.
    “Help!” I scream, but I’m hoarse.
    I’m crying, now. Sobbing. The tears leave frigid trails down my cheeks, and every breath feels like I’m inhaling ice.
    “This is your chance, Sheldon,” I say out loud. “This is your big chance to die and not know anything, ever again.”
    But I don’t want to die.
    I say that out loud, too: “I don’t want to die.”
    I start running on the spot. Stamping my feet. Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, my legs.
    I try kicking the door again, but it’s too painful.
    I try to yell: “Let me out!” It comes out a whisper. I sob again.
    My heart is beating very quickly. In the dark, I see a parade of detailed images. I try shutting my eyes, but it makes no difference. Casey, heaving product onto his cart, slurping coffee, jittering. Jack, smirking. Tommy, eyes wide, ranting about impending apocalypse. Gilbert, wearing Ernie’s nametag, his head thrown back, laughing. Eric, standing with Joshua near the trash chute.
    Blood dribbling from Joshua’s chin.
    How long have I been in here? A long time. The store’s closed, now, I bet. Everyone is probably already home. Asleep.
    Sleeping is the last thing I should do, right now.
    But I could sleep.
    I try running on the spot again, and stop. Moving requires such effort.
    Sleep would mean escape from the