Page 4 of The Secretary Volume II

I nod, wondering if there’s a market for supervisor life insurance.I could make a killing.Literally.

Marjorie’s gaze flicks to my screen, her mouth curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“And what’s this?”She jabs a manicured finger at my browser tab.“Personal browsing during call hours?”

“Just looking for housing on my break,” I lie.My break was three hours ago and lasted exactly seven minutes.

“Well, your break ended”—she makes a theatrical show of checking her watch—”two hours and fifty-three minutes ago.Back to the phones.Death waits for no one, and neither does our quarterly quota.”

She struts away, leaving behind a cloud of overpowering cinnamon and corporate oppression.

I pull up my call list and see fifteen more names to get through before I can leave.Fifteen more chances to convince strangers that mortality is just around the corner.

I rub my temple and glance at the name tag clipped to my cheap polyester blouse.Diane.

Not Lena.Diane.

Because according to SecureLife Insurance, we’re more likely to sell trust if we’re assigned a name that “aligns with the demographic we’re targeting.”

They paid for a psychological study to tell them that, apparently.Something about people feeling more comfortable buying from someone whose name sounds like they could have gone to high school together.

An almost retiree from Ohio?Meet Diane.A twenty-something dude fresh out of college?Jason.A retiree?Evelyn.

It’s like when you take a foreign language class, and the teacher gives you a “culturally appropriate” name to match.Only instead of practicing verb tenses, we’re emotionally manipulating people into confronting their mortality.

It’s supposed to be subtle.But it’s hard to sell sincerity when I keep forgetting who the hell I am.

2

Lena

The call queue refreshes.Another number.Another Diane moment.

I steal a glance at my laptop, where a Zillow tab sits open.I’ve been obsessively refreshing the same three listings all morning, despite knowing I can’t afford any of them.

I dial the next number, scrolling back to the apartment listing with my free hand.

Maybe if I sell enough death today, I can afford to start living again.

I stare at the gray partition wall as the phone rings endlessly in my ear.Three rings.

Four.

Five.

Please don’t pick up, I silently beg.I’m in no mood to convince another stranger that mortality is just around the corner.

“Hello?”A gravelly male voice answers, and my rehearsed script activates like muscle memory.

“Good afternoon, sir!This is Diane from SecureLife Insurance.How are you doing today?”My voice rises to that unnatural customer service octave that makes me want to punch myself in the throat.

“I’m on the do-not-call list,” he growls before hanging up.

Thank God.I glance at my watch—three minutes until my next mandatory call.Just enough time to continue my desperate apartment hunt.I click back to the browser tab.Two-bedroom with “charming pre-war details” (translation: asbestos and lead pipes) for only $2,100 a month.A bargain in this city, and still $700 beyond what I can afford.

My mouse hovers over the “Contact Landlord” button when I feel hot breath on my neck.

“Diiiaaane,” Marjorie’s voice slithers into my ear.“I couldn’t help but notice your call lasted only seven seconds.”

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