T1 2024 -

She hit send before she could stop herself.

“The old trail washed out,” the text said. “The one behind the cabin. Creek rose six feet in two hours. Never seen that before.” t1 2024

She checked the wall calendar. Still December. Still sunsets. She hit send before she could stop herself

It was her father. Three time zones west, where the mountains were finally getting the snow they’d been promised since November. Creek rose six feet in two hours

She reached up, tore the page off its ring binder, and crumpled it into a ball. Underneath was January: a blank grid of pale blue squares, unsullied by appointments or deadlines. February was hidden beneath that. Then March. Three months of unmarked days.

T1. The acronym had metastasized from the company’s strategy decks into her dreams. First quarter. Make it count. Set the pace for the year. Her boss, a man named Derek who used words like “circle back” and “low-hanging fruit” without irony, had sent a GIF of a rocket ship on January 2nd. The implied message: You are the rocket. Or you are the debris.

She typed for five minutes. She did not use the words “circle back” or “low-hanging fruit” or “bandwidth.” She used words like “failed sensors” and “washed-out trails” and “we are building castles on mud.” She described the hundred-year storm that would come in March, or April, or maybe tomorrow. She described the elderly brick buildings. She described her father’s creek, rising six feet in two hours.