Finally, you were boss. Your quinoa-powered brain gathered all that information over the years. You were ready to make a deposit, ready to ease into an easier life—your ideal life. You pulled into your knowledge bank. But shit. You arrived at 5:05 and the bank was closed.

There was a handwritten note on the door:

We’ve taken your sponge cake mind and put it in a safe deposit box—don’t worry!

We’ll leave you with the leftovers so you will still appear on the outside to have it all—all the responsibility you craved at 15 years old.

But now the gremlins have climbed inside your brain, and they’re sliming your nerves. They’re actually dying out—the nerves, not the gremlins.

Watch out, your joy has been put in a jar, next to laughter on a shelf.

As you walk to make yourself a cocktail of happy thoughts, the ground beneath you pulls away. You’re standing—if one can stand in these situations—reaching up, falling down. The shelf is out of reach.

Now you’re standing in a very hot room—you’re pretty sure you landed in the rumored place called hell.

“It’s real,” you mutter. The air is heavy, a sulfur smell overwhelms you. And then you gaze around, looking for signs of life. You see long, dark shadows with dark corners in the room.

Suddenly, your hand goes weak and starts to wither away. You drop the sugar that you didn’t realize you were holding. It turns into a thick syrup and now you can’t move your leg.

You shout, “Help!” but your voice is gone. Your mouth gapes open, trying to push the voice out, and a bug flies in. You start coughing. Stuck in syrup, your hands are the size of a baby’s now. You feel the tears come. They sting. If only you could have made that cocktail. That’s why procrastination is your downfall.

A man walks into the room—it’s more of a cavern, you decide. He’s tall and skinny, wearing a black denim coverall, fitted. His shoes are engineer boots with a pointy toe. He wears a scarf that reads,

Deviling is hard work.

You look at him, a knot churning in your abdomen. You notice pulsations in your arms, legs, and torso. You lift your arm and wipe your brow with your forearm.

“Hi, I’m Tom, I’ll be your concierge.”

He smiles at you like a toothpaste ad.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

But wait, you mouth, your eyes plead. You stand in your spot, your legs starting to feel weak.

He comes back a moment later pushing a heavy cart: a wheelchair, a BiPAP machine, a ventilator with tubes, a feeding tube and pump, bottles of medication, adult diapers, piled high.

The coveralled man picks up an object—a rollator—and hurls it at you. You duck, the whirring sound goes over your head, and the rollator lands behind you.

Next he puts the medication in a zippered tote bag along with a plastic bottle of water. You suddenly notice a pile of empty water bottles discarded in the corner. He tosses the bag to you and it lands at your feet.

“Open it, and take the meds. They might help. They might not,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders.

You crouch down, your knees feel stiff. You attempt to open the bag but your hands won’t work.

He rolls his eyes. “All you neuro-degenerative disease people are such sissies.”

Your cheeks get hot, anger rushing through your body. He walks over and unzips the bag.

“I suppose you’ll need me to open the bottles and water,” he says, taking a small plastic pill cup. He empties the meds into the cup, opens the water, and hands them both to you.

Quickly, you grab for the medicine but your hands won’t open. The man opens your hands and puts the medicine and the water in them.

You swallow all the pills, your hands start to open. You want to thank him, knowing you wouldn’t have a voice, but you do.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice raspy but audible.

He goes back to his cart and lifts the wheelchair, lifting it over his head. He gets ready to throw it, digging in his feet and bending at the knees.

“What are you doing?” you shout.

Ignoring you, he throws the wheelchair at you. You flinch, but it lands several feet away.

He goes back to the cart and continues to throw everything until it’s empty. He wipes his hands together, then walks back to you.

“It’s not your time yet,” he says plainly, “so I’ll be sending you back with this gift.”

He pauses, then says, “You’ll need most of this eventually.”

“Eventually? What does this mean? Has there been a mistake? I feel healthy,” you say.

“Feeling healthy and looking healthy don’t mean anything. They’re superficial. You’re not healthy. And no, it’s not a mistake.” He blows some debris off his fingers.

“But why me? This has never happened in my family,” you cry.

He rolls his eyes again. “Give me a break. It can happen to anyone. Plus, I checked, and you have the genetic form, so you were bound to get it.”

“The genetic form of what?” you ask. You stretch your arms out straight and uncurl your hands.

The man with the scarf starts to usher you to the middle of the room. There’s a pad there that you don’t recall seeing before. He grabs your arms and puts you in the center. Then he efficiently—

Is it only 20 seconds later?—surrounds you with the stuff he threw at you.

“I’ll be seeing you again. Remember, the name is Tom.”

He turns around and walks out of the room, snapping his fingers and humming.

You’re back in your living room now. You are surrounded by the items the strange man named Tom gave you.

What does this all mean? you wonder.

You walk over to your couch, grabbing your laptop. You start googling everything that happened, what type of neurodegenerative disease causes…

You wait for Google AI to spurn out its answer.

Your jaw drops, your stomach tightens, tears stream down your cheeks.

“Tom!” you shout.