Tucker had to do a double take: The spreadsheet returned the correct result.
He could have sworn he had made a mistake—his finger slipped—but the cell displayed the number he thought he wouldn’t see. It occurred to him that this was the first time he had noticed such an event, and now that it happened, he could only squint at the monitor as the screen ebbed, wavy lines flowing from top to bottom. He tapped the keyboard and input the formula again, as a test. Same result. He tried one more time. Again, the number appeared. At least I’m not seeing things, he thought.
He looked through his cubicle window to see his coworker, Derrick, whose eyes stayed trained on his own computer.
“Derrick,” Tucker said.
Derrick did not look up.
“Derrick!”
His coworker stopped typing and shot him a toothy smile. It put Tucker off a little.
“Hi, Tucker,” Derrick said in an overly cheery tone. “How may I help you?”
“I messed up a formula and got the right number. Is that normal?”
“Messed up?!” Derrick asked. Tucker recoiled at the excitement. “In Metadyne, you can’t mess up! Don’t doubt yourself, Tuck. I’m sure you typed it in right.” He went back to his work.
Tucker looked back at his screen until it fell asleep and went black. Something about Derrick’s tone perturbed him. He didn’t feel encouraged. He might have heard a sneer, and he didn’t like it.
Screw you, then.
Suddenly, he grew warm in the usually cool and comfortable office.
He reawakened the monitor and stared at the cell until his head ached. He knew he shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about it, but he massaged his temples and thought about it anyway. Maybe he did type it correctly. Maybe his finger went exactly where it was supposed to. He wanted to believe it, but he wasn’t sure that he could. As he looked at the wavy black text, he began to distrust himself more than the formula.
Footsteps clacked against the vinyl floor behind Tucker. He let them come close.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Quinn?” a happy, baritone voice
