Chapter 7: Earworm Escapade
The fluorescent lights in the office hummed a flat, malignant note that drilled straight into the meat of Mark’s brain. It had been a relentless two hours since he’d returned from the garage, the phantom warmth of Bea’s touch replaced by the cold reality of the corrupted Hengstmann files. He’d hit a wall. A towering, pixelated wall of error messages and cascading system failures.
His forehead was propped on one hand, his vision blurring on the screen. A headache, sharp and precise, had taken up residence behind his left eye. It pulsed in time with the flicker of the faulty panel above his desk. Each throb was a reminder of unfinished work, of Abernathy’s looming disapproval, of the deep, unspent tension still coiled in his gut from the interrupted moment in the car.
In his pocket, Bea was a statue. He could feel her contained energy, a silent witness to his grinding frustration. He didn’t dare take her out here, not with Sandra from HR doing random walk-bys under the guise of “wellness checks.”
The headache intensified, a vise tightening. He winced, massaging his temple with rough fingers. It was no use.
A moment later, he felt movement. A tiny, deliberate traversal from his pocket, up along the seam of his shirt, a path she’d worn familiar. She was heading for his collar. He kept perfectly still, his eyes on the chaotic spreadsheet, pretending to be lost in thought.
He expected her to emerge at his neckline, to maybe offer a miniature foot massage on his trapezius again. Instead, he felt a new, incredibly delicate touch just behind the lobe of his left ear. A whisper of contact. Then, a slight, almost imperceptible pressure.
She was going in.
A primal jolt, half-alarm, half-fascination, shot through him. He held his breath. It was an intimacy that dwarfed all the others. This wasn’t his skin; this was the threshold to his inner workings, a dark, resonant cave that funneled every sound in the world into his consciousness.
He felt her, a minuscule explorer, slip past the outer fold. The sensation was indescribable—a soft, tickling penetration that was neither painful nor quite pleasurable. It was profound. He was acutely aware of the wax-deadened silence of his own ear canal, the faint, oceanic rush of his own blood. And then, of her.
She settled. He could picture her there, a lone, vibrant figure in the warm, dark tunnel. He waited, his entire body on hold.
Then it came.
Not a song, not a melody with notes. A hum. A low, steady, resonant vibration generated from within her tiny form. It traveled through the fluid and bone of his inner ear, not as a sound he heard, but as a sensation he felt. It thrummed directly into the base of his skull, a soft, mechanical purr that seemed to physically push against the pounding ache behind his eye.
The effect was instantaneous and surreal. The sharp, stabbing quality of the headache began to soften, blurring at the edges. The humming frequency seemed to match the pain and then gently unravel it, like a deft hand loosening a snarled knot. He let out a slow, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders, wired up near his ears, dropped an inch.
He closed his eyes. The spreadsheets, the errors, Abernathy—it all receded, muffled under this internal, private concert. Her hum was a living balm, a secret repair happening in the dark. He focused on the vibration, on the impossible reality of his wife literally inside his head, soothing him from the inside out. A faint, dreamy smile touched his lips.
“Finch.”
The voice was a nail gun shot.
Mark’s eyes flew open. Abernathy stood at the mouth of his cubicle, a slab of a man in a too-tight shirt, holding a printout. His small, discerning eyes were fixed on Mark.
The humming stopped.Abruptly. The sudden silence in his head was louder than any noise. The headache, half-dissolved, gave a warning throb.
“Sir.” Mark’s voice came out surprisingly steady. He straightened, willing his face into neutral professionalism. The inside of his ear felt cavernous, empty. He was hyper-aware of the tiny inhabitant, frozen deep within.
“The Hengstmann reconciliation.” Abernathy slapped the printout onto the desk. “It was due to my inbox ten minutes ago. I see nothing.”
“The legacy data is corrupted,” Mark said, gesturing to his screen. “I’m rebuilding the formulas from scratch. It’s taking longer than projected.”
“Projections are for those with the luxury of time.” Abernathy’s gaze didn’t waver. It was then Mark noticed the man’s eyes weren’t on his face, but lower. On his neck. On the slight, undeniable tremor that was running through the muscles there—a direct physiological response to the sudden cessation of the humming, to the adrenaline now flooding his system.
Mark forced himself utterly still. A bead of sweat traced a cold path down his spine.
“You seem… tense, Finch.” Abernathy leaned a hip against the cubicle wall, a pseudo-casual gesture that felt like a blockade. “That sensitivity issue acting up again?”
The word was a landmine. The fake doctor’s note, the excuse that had saved him before. Abernathy was probing, looking for a crack.
“Just a headache,” Mark said, keeping his voice flat. “It’s passing.”
Inside his ear, Bea moved. Not a hum, but a shift. A gentle, reassuring press against the delicate inner wall. I’m here. It was all he could do not to flinch at the intimate contact.
“Headaches.” Abernathy said the word like it was a moral failing. “You need to manage your stressors, Finch. The company relies on reliability.” His eyes flickered again to Mark’s neck, to the pulse he could probably see hammering there. “Perhaps you need a proper medical review. Something more… thorough.”
The threat was clear. The reprieve granted by Leo’s forged note was wearing thin. Abernathy’s suspicion was a tangible thing in the cramped cubicle.
Then, from deep inside Mark’s head, Bea began to hum again.This was different. Not the soft, therapeutic vibration from before. This was lower, almost sub-audible, a harmonic that didn’t soothe but structured. It was a steadying frequency. It didn’t touch his headache. Instead, it seemed to vibrate through the bones of his jaw, his skull, lending a strange solidity to his core. The involuntary tremor in his neck muscles lessened, then ceased. His breathing, which had gone shallow, deepened without him consciously deciding it.
He looked directly at Abernathy, the hum a secret pillar inside him. “I have it under control,” Mark said, and his voice was calm, layered over the private resonance. “The rebuild is methodical. Patching the corrupted data with guesses would lead to bigger issues down the line. I’d rather be late and accurate than on time and wrong.” He tapped the disastrous spreadsheet on his screen. “Unless you want to explain to Hengstmann why their Q3 projections are based on digital ghosts.”
Abernathy’s stare was a test of wills. Mark didn’t blink. The internal hum held him steady, a secret gyroscope.
Finally, with a grunt that might have been concession or contempt, Abernathy pushed off the wall. “End of day, Finch. Not a minute later.” He turned to leave, then paused, throwing the words over his shoulder like a knife. “And see about that tension. It’s unprofessional.”
He walked away, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
Mark didn’t move until the sound faded. The humming softened, transitioning back to the gentle, ache-dissolving frequency from before. The remaining vise-grip on his temple released completely. He was left feeling eerily clear, the panic washed away, replaced by a cool, focused stillness.
He waited a full minute, listening to the office sounds—the typing, the distant phone ring, Sandra’s laugh from three aisles over. Normalcy, paper-thin and fragile.
Slowly, he brought a hand up, pretending to rub his neck. He cupped it over his ear, a makeshift sound booth. “Okay,” he breathed, the word mostly lost in the cage of his palm. “You can… come out now. The coast is clear.”
He felt the delicate, tickling retreat. Her tiny form emerging from the sacred, dark canal, back into the open air behind his ear. She lingered there for a moment, a dot of warmth, before scurrying back down to the safety of his pocket.
He exhaled, a long, cleansing breath. On his screen, the spreadsheet still mocked him with its errors. The deadline still loomed. But the headache was gone. In its place was a profound, vibrating awareness. His wife had been inside his skull. She had fought his battle with a hum. She had hidden in the deepest part of him while his boss hunted for weakness.
He saved his work, closed the file, and opened a new, blank document. His fingers found the keys. He began to type, the clicks precise and rhythmic. He had a report to rebuild, a mountain to move. And deep in his pocket, a secret, living weight settled in, a quiet engine of reassurance against his heart.
And deep in his pocket, a secret, living weight settled in, a quiet engine of reassurance against his heart. The click-clack of his keyboard became a meditative rhythm, the corrupted data yielding, line by line, to his rebuilt logic. He worked with a fluid clarity, the ghost of her hum still stabilizing the air in his bones.
A soft vibration, distinct from the earlier internal resonance, buzzed against his chest. It was a pattern. A quick, insistent tap-tap-tap, like a tiny fist knocking on a door. He recognized their code: Pay attention.
He minimized his spreadsheet, pulling up a dense document about quarterly compliance as cover. Under the desk, he slipped his hand into his jacket, his fingers forming a sheltered hollow. She walked into his waiting palm, a swift, confident movement.
“That was… something new,” he whispered, bringing his cupped hand up as if to rest his chin in thought. He peeked through the lattice of his fingers. She stood there, arms crossed, her blue hair a shock of color against his skin. She mimed cracking her neck, then pointed a tiny finger at his temple and gave a thumbs-up.
“Headache’s gone,” he breathed. “Thanks. But Jesus, Bea. My ear?” He couldn’t suppress a slight shudder, part awe, part visceral memory. “Warn a guy.”
She shrugged, a microscopic gesture of insolence. Then she pointed at the space where Abernathy had stood, made a gagging face, and mimed swinging a baseball bat. Mark felt a snort of laughter bubble in his chest. He clamped his lips shut, forcing it back down into a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Don’t,” he whispered, his shoulders shaking silently. “Don’t make me laugh. It’s not funny.”
She made it funnier. She began to march in a tight circle on his lifeline, her tiny feet tickling, her posture a perfect parody of Abernathy’s puffed-up, swaggering walk. She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and thrust a nonexistent belly forward.
Mark pressed his forehead to his knees, his body convulsing with silent, tear-inducing mirth. He sucked in a ragged, shaky breath, fighting for control. The stress of the morning, the terror of discovery, the absurdity of it all, was transmuting into this desperate, hidden hilarity.
When he dared look again, she was holding her sides, pretending to laugh uproariously, collapsing onto his palm in a fit of mimed hysterics. A real, loud chuckle escaped him before he could cage it. It sounded alien in the quiet office.
He froze.
Sandra’s voice chirped from two cubicles over. “Everything okay over there, Mark?”
He straightened up fast, his face heating. He cleared his throat, rough and loud. “Yeah! Yeah. Just… read a ridiculous auto-correct fail in an email. Sorry.” He made a show of clicking his mouse, his heart thudding.
In his palm, Bea had gone still. After a beat, she gave him a slow, sarcastic golf clap.
“You’re a menace,” he mouthed, no sound coming out. He smiled despite himself. The fear was still there, a low current, but it was now tangled up with giddy affection. She had taken the day’s worst moment and turned it into a secret joke only they shared.
He opened his fingers just enough for her to step back onto his shirt. She climbed toward his collar, her tiny hands precise grips on the fabric. At the base of his throat, she didn’t descend into the pocket. She settled in the hollow there, that same spot she’d targeted for tickles that morning, and went perfectly still. A living pendant. A claim.
He returned to the Hengstmann files, the work flowing now. The deadline pressure was a concrete fact, but it no longer felt immersive. He was buoyed. Every few minutes, he’d feel the slightest shift from her, a reminder that he was not alone in this sterile box.
The afternoon bled away. He submitted the report with seven minutes to spare, the email whooshing into the digital void. A hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless. He powered down his computer, the screen fading to black, reflecting his exhausted, satisfied face.
As he shrugged on his jacket, he felt Bea move. She traveled from his throat, across his shoulder, and down into the familiar shelter of his breast pocket. He patted it gently.
“Let’s go home,” he whispered.
The garage was quiet now. He unlocked the car, the thunk echoing. He slid in, shut the door, and the world narrowed to this dim, familiar space. The memory of their earlier interruption hung between them, a charged, unfinished sentence.
He didn’t start the engine. He just sat in the driver’s seat, hands in his lap, and let the silence be full. He could feel her watching him from the pocket’s shadows.
“Okay,” he said softly, to the dashboard, to her. “Your turn.”
There was a shimmer in the air above the passenger seat, a sound like tinsel rustling. Then Bea was there, full-sized, curled in the bucket seat, her vibrant hair almost glowing in the gloom. She was smiling, but her eyes were soft, searching his face.
“Tough day,” she said, not a question.
“You melted part of my brain and then made me laugh at my boss while he was threatening me,” Mark said, leaning his head back against the rest. “So. A weird day.”
“The best kind,” she said. She uncurled, reaching over the center console. Her fingers found his, lacing through them. Her touch was warm, solid, anchoring. “You held it together. You were… solid.”
“I had an internal support system.” He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissed them. “A very invasive one.”
She laughed, a real, rich sound that filled the car. It was the antidote to the fluorescent hum, to Abernathy’s flat drone. It was the sound of his real life, waiting for him just outside the office walls.
“Take me home,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And I’ll show you a proper external support system.”
He started the car, the engine a comforting growl. As he pulled out of the parking space, he saw Sandra from HR walking to her own car. She waved, a bright, generic office gesture. He waved back, a polite, automatic lift of his hand.
But his other hand stayed firmly linked with Bea’s, hidden in the space between their seats. A secret handshake. A completed circuit.
The garage exit yawned ahead, framing a slice of the city bathed in the bruised purple and orange of dusk. He drove toward it, toward the open air, toward home. The tightness in his chest was gone, replaced by a vast, expanding lightness. He had survived the day, not just intact, but transformed. He had carried a world in his pocket, and it had carried him right back.
He glanced at Bea. She was watching the world go by, a small, contented smile on her face. The city lights began to flicker on in the deepening blue, each one a promise of a separate life, a separate story. His own story, absurd and beautiful and his, was sitting right beside him, humming a tune only he could feel in the marrow of his bones. He took the turn toward their neighborhood, and for the first time all day, he let himself fully, unreservedly smile.
A sudden, sharp buzz erupted from his discarded jacket in the back seat. His work phone. The screen lit up, cutting through the dim car, displaying Abernathy’s name. The smile died on Mark’s lips.
Bea’s hand tightened around his. “Don’t,” she said, her voice low.
He kept driving, eyes on the road. The phone buzzed again, insistent, a mechanical insect trapped in the quiet. It went to voicemail. A moment of silence. Then it buzzed a third time.
“He’s not going to stop,” Mark said, more to himself than to her. The lightness he’d felt curdled into a heavy, familiar dread. The report was done, submitted. What else could there be?
“Ignore it,” Bea said, her voice firm. “You’re off the clock. It’s our time.”
The phone fell silent. For five blessed blocks, there was only the sound of the tires on asphalt. Mark’s shoulders, which had dropped during the drive, began creeping up again. The phantom itch of surveillance was back.
Then, his personal phone chimed in his pocket. A different tone. A text. He felt Bea go rigid beside him.
“It’s Leo,” he said, pulling it out with his free hand at a red light. He tapped the screen. The message was brief.
Hey. Abernathy just called me. Asking “hypothetical” questions about long-term neurological side effects of your “condition.” Sounds like he’s digging. Heads up.
The light turned green. Horns blared behind him. He jerked the car forward, his heart a cold, hard stone in his chest. Abernathy wasn’t just suspicious. He was investigating. Calling the doctor whose name was on the note. The flimsy shield they’d built was cracking.
“Mark?” Bea’s voice was small.
“He called Leo,” Mark said, his voice flat. “He’s checking the story.”
The sanctuary of their home, just a few minutes away, didn’t feel like a sanctuary anymore. It felt like the next place Abernathy’s reach might find them. The car, once a capsule of privacy, now felt like a glass box rolling through the gathering dark.
Bea was silent for a long moment. Then, she let go of his hand. He felt a rush of cold panic at the loss of contact. But she was just moving, leaning over to dig through the tote bag at her feet. She pulled out a small, sleek digital voice recorder, the kind he used for interview notes during client meetings.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She pressed record, held it to her mouth, and took a deep, shaky breath. When she spoke, her voice was different. It was higher, strained, dripping with a theatrical, weepy panic.
“Mark, honey, it’s happening again! The room is… spinning. I can’t… I can’t stand up. I think I’m going to be sick.” She let out a convincing, pathetic whimper. “You need to come home. Right now. Please.”
She stopped the recording, her face a mask of grim determination. She played it back. The sound of her feigned distress was jarring, a perfect performance of medical emergency.
“Text him that,” she said, her own voice steady and cold. “Then call him. Play it over the phone. Tell him your wife is having a severe neurological episode, a complication from your… what did Leo call it? Hypersensitivity. Tell him you have to go to the ER.”
Mark stared at her, his mind reeling. “That’s… that’s a nuclear option, Bea.”
“He’s digging, Mark!” she said, her eyes blazing. “He’s making calls. He wants to prove you’re a liability. So we give him a liability. A big, messy, human one that trumps all his corporate bullshit.” She shoved the recorder toward him. “Make him so uncomfortable he never wants to ask about your health again.”
It was audacious. It was dangerous. It could backfire spectacularly. He looked from her fierce face to the dark screen of his work phone in the back, imagining Abernathy drafting a termination email based on “inconsistencies.”
He took the recorder. His thumb hovered over the play button. He imagined making the call, hearing Abernathy’s impatient sigh, the performative concern. He imagined the man’s disgust at being dragged into a personal medical drama.
A wild, reckless laugh built in his throat, born of exhaustion and defiance. It was the same laugh she’d provoked in the cubicle, the one he’d stifled. This time, in the privacy of their moving car, he let it start—a sharp, incredulous bark. But he caught it, choking it back into a tight, breathless shake of his head.
MARK STIFLES LAUGH.