It's supposed to be your day off. It always happens when it's supposed to be your day off. Your boss from the gas station/convenience store, Shane, always calls you on those days and asks you the same question that isn't a question, so much as a command made politely: "Can you come in?" What's different this time is that whether you try to ignore the ringing of the phone or push past your stress and go to pick it up yourself, it wasn't your normal two hands that got their fingers around the smooth plastic of your phone - but a third one, at the end of a fresh arm that grew out of your stomach, forcing you to answer the call.
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