The fluorescent lights of Nakamura Industries buzzed overhead, their sterile glow turning everything the color of old bones. Pete Harrington sat hunched at his cubicle, his fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard.

  He caught his reflection in the darkened monitor when the screen went to sleep. Forty-two years old, though the face staring back looked older, gaunt, gray from too many years under fluorescent lights and not enough sunlight. His brown hair, once neatly kept, had grown shaggy and unkempt. The shirt hung loose on shoulders that used to fill it out. There'd been a time when he'd been in decent shape, when he'd had reasons to take care of himself. That was before.

  Around him, younger employees scurried like ants, their faces tight with stress.

  7:47 PM.

  He'd been here since 7 AM. Almost thirteen hours, not counting the lunch break he'd skipped. Again.

  "Harrington-san," his supervisor called from across the office. "The Peterson report needs revisions. Have it on my desk by morning."

  "Yes, sir." Pete's voice was flat, emotionless. He didn't mention he'd already revised it three times. Didn't mention that he'd designed the entire system the report was analyzing. That before his world had shattered, he'd been a senior systems architect at a Fortune 500 company.

  That was before.

  Before the accident. Before Sarah.

  His hand trembled slightly as he reached for his cold coffee. The mug bore a faded inscription: "World's Best Dad." He stared at it, as he did every night, punishing himself with the memory of her smile when she'd given it to him on Father's Day.

  Ten years ago. She'd been seven.

  The cubicle walls seemed to close in. Pete closed his eyes, but that was worse. Behind his eyelids, he could still see the intersection. Still hear the screech of tires. Still feel the absolute helplessness as…

  His phone buzzed, rescuing him from the spiral.

  Unknown Number.

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  He almost didn't answer. But at this hour, it could be work. It was always work now. That's what he deserved. Endless, meaningless work until the day he finally just... stopped.

  "Hello?"

  "Pete? It's... it's me. It's Jennifer."

  The world tilted. His ex-wife's voice, a sound he hadn't heard in eight years, not since the divorce papers were signed.

  "Jennifer?" His voice cracked, the first genuine emotion he'd felt in months breaking through. "Is everything okay? Are you. "

  "I'm fine. I'm... I'm sorry to call so late. I know we haven't talked, but I..." She paused, and he could hear her breathing, gathering courage. "I've been in therapy. Real therapy, finally. And my therapist suggested... Pete, I need to apologize to you."

  "Apologize? Jennifer, you don't"

  "Please. Let me say this." Her voice was stronger now. "I blamed you. For years, I blamed you for what happened to Sarah. It was easier than blaming the drunk driver, easier than accepting that the universe is just... random and cruel sometimes. You were there. You saw it happen. You tried to protect her. And I blamed you anyway. For not reacting fast enough, for not being able to stop it, for surviving when she didn't. I took all that grief and anger and I..."

  Pete felt something crack in his chest. Something that had been frozen solid for a decade.

  "You were a wonderful father, Pete. Sarah loved you so much. Do you remember how she used to wait by the window for you to come home? How she'd run outside and you'd scoop her up and spin her around? You made her so happy. Every single day, you made her happy."

  Tears streamed down Pete's face now, silent and hot. Around him, his coworkers pretended not to notice.

  "I should have been faster," Pete whispered. "I should have"

  "No. Stop. Pete, you were an amazing father. You are amazing. And Sarah... she wouldn't want this for you. She wouldn't want you destroying yourself like this."

  They talked for an hour. Maybe two. Pete lost track of time as Jennifer shared memories, good memories, happy ones he'd locked away because they hurt too much. Sarah's first word (it was "Dada"). The time she'd drawn a crayon portrait of Pete as a superhero. The way she'd insisted on wearing her princess dress to go fishing with him, and how he'd gone along with it, the two of them sitting on the dock with her in her pink tulle and plastic tiara.

  When they finally hung up, Pete sat in his cubicle, staring at nothing.

  For the first time in ten years, he felt something other than numbness or pain.

  It was small. Barely a flicker. But it was there.

  Hope.

  Maybe, just maybe he could try. Try to live again. Try to honor Sarah's memory by not wasting the life she'd never get to finish.

  He saved his work, shut down his computer, and for the first time in months, left the office before midnight.

  The rain had started while he'd been on the phone. Pete stood on the curb, waiting for the crosswalk signal, when he heard it.

  A horn. Blaring.

  He turned.

  Headlights. Swerving. The truck driver's terrified face visible through the windshield.

  Not again, he thought, with strange calm. Please, not like this. Not like Sarah.

  The world went white.