He crawls out of bed, legs sore from two days ago: a brutal 10k. Practice run. But hilly. He looks through the door, into the shower. Wife is there. Steamy. He smells coffee, wanders in that direction.

Stairs. Clear view of the kitchen. Daughter number two, slack jawed in front of a bowl of cereal, a moment's peace before she's fully awake. Daughter number one idly stirring a mug of something while idly flipping pages of a gossip rag.

Why are you stirring that with a tea spoon Jack asks, holding open the fridge, hoping subconsciously that it accidentally spawns a hot plate of eggs, bacon toast. Settles for yogurt.

We're outta regular ones.

Wash some?

The smirk is audible.

Dad.

What.

Dad why is 2 plus 2.

Jack turns to daughter number two. Why? Don't you mean what?

Daughter number one's eye-rolling is audible.

No why. I hate math. I don't want to go to school! She pushes herself as violently as she can away from the kitchen table and pounds up the stairs louder than 37 pounds should be able to.

Jack shrugs. Daughter number one shrugs. Jack shuffles to a south-facing window and squints through the blinds, eating his yogurt. Banana something.

Her aroma precedes her. Soap. Wife says Is that coffee? Give that to me. Juice. Or maybe milk?

Strong bones, Jack says

The smirk and the eye rolling are audible.

There is a pause. Jack can tell, wife is staring at something It's your turn to do the dishes, she says.

Jack turns. He's feeling more awake now. Alert. Pretty lively, actually. Pretty damn good, actually. Well, a man's got to do what a man's got to do! He says. He's trying to be corny.

It works. Oh my god, daughter number one says. She ascends the stairs exactly unlike the princess archetype she stopped worshipping when she tripped past age 6 two years ago. Kathy Morghkardani drinks coffee, she says from the top, is swallowed by vanishing lines of sight.

Wife is wrapped in a terry cloth robe. Her nose is her most prominent feature, and it is shoved inside the opening of a milk carton. She's a picture. Her swollen belly is peaking out. Jack feels himself stirring down there. I made that, he thinks to himself. Three in a row. Wife pulls her beak out of the cartoon, peers into it, shrugs, chugs.

Jack makes a point of carefully rinsing his yogurt cup and nothing else. He enjoys the luxurious warmth of the water. He ignores last night's spaghetti stains. He turns and recycles the now immaculate and ready to be discarded Yoplait container.

Wife freezes, eyes wide, hand on belly. Is it time? Jack asks. Wife gives him patented Wife Look Number 27. Daughter number one and daughter number two come down the stairs at the same time, dressed more or less alike. School uniforms. Exposed knees, frumpy sweatshirts, barrettes. Backpacks by the front door. An excellent school lunch program. One will grow up to be a doctor, the other a dentist. Jack doesn't know which. He's going to explode in eight hours or so.

Dressed, driveway, newspaper, carpool, NPR, crappy traffic, downtown, parking garage. They take turns driving, and have the space rented on a kind of time-share. It was Kindle's idea. He thinks that's why he gets to choose the radio station on the way in. Today talk, but usually rock and roll. Usually bands Jack is no longer familiar with. Unless they play a cover version. Today Talk because Lasgoud is driving, and Kindle wants to Jump Her Bones. So he tries to appear intellectual. Elevator, office door, corridor, cubicle. At last he can relax. He sits and waits.

Coworker Steve pounces. Jack. Do you play the lotto.

In the old days, he might have come up with something funny. Pithy. A joke about his mother in law. No, not really. Why.

Look at this. For years, right? I've been using my wife's birthday to pick the numbers.

You're divorced.

Habit. For years. Yesterday, fuck it. I choose some random numbers. Really random. I've been reading this book, see, and people, we can't just make up random numbers. Go ahead. Try it. Say 5 numbers.

Uh, 12, 6 99, 4, 13.

There you go. Why did you say all numbers less than 100? Only one prime? You picked months in a year, the ages of your kids maybe? 99 Cause there's 99s everywhere, when you're shopping.

Ah, yeah.

Statistics. But me, I've been practicing. I picked 5 totally random numbers. And get this. I'm off by one. On every single pick. The jackpot's 14 5 92 65 35. And I picked 15 4 93 64 36.

Whoa.

You're fuckin' A. He walks off.

Jack shrugs mentally and turns to his desk. It's pretty darn messy. He turns on his workstation. It's pretty darn messy too. He knows exactly where everything is. Jack's pretty darn good at his job. He works for a few hours. His son, when he's born, will take after him. Jack won't ever meet him. Boom, etc.

Lunch time at Dante's. Their hostess is names Beatrice. No one notices. A bust of Virgil in a niche by their table. No one notices. Due to the way coats and briefcases are plopped down at the round table in the corner where they sit, Jack is opposite Lawrence, Morris, and Curlington. A tableau. They look like identical triplets. Navy blue suits, red ties, round faces, balding, leering to one side as Beatrice walks by, frosty martini glasses in front of them. Jack is shoveling away at a plate of penne alla arrabiatia, like there's no tomorrow. He doesn't know it, but there isn't.

Last meals, Morris says. I was reading an article on the NYT website. That guy in Texas. His last meal.

Is that what you do instead of working, Curlington says.

Watch it, says Morris

Yeah, you're no better, Lawrence says.

And I don't need you defending me. Morris says.

Lawrence and Curlington grin, sip their martinis.

Steak and eggs, hash browns, toast with butter and jelly, milk, coffee, juice.

What, he was executed in the morning?

Says who?

I thought they did executions at midnight.

A man can't have breakfast at night?

Denny's is 24-7.

And IHOP.

The three are silent, thinking about IHOP. Jack's penne is half gone.

What would be your last meal?

Me? Curlington says. Lobster tail, fries, fried shrimp, fried clams, garlic bread, root beer.

Ugh. You eat all that, it will be your last meal. Now me, I'm going for deep-fried shrimps, a bucket of original recipe chicken from KFC, French fries, and a pound of strawberries.

How's that any different?

I'm going to die anyway, right?

I'll take ice-cream. Just ice-cream. Like Mint Chocolate Chip. Like two paints.

What about you, Jack?

They all look at him expectantly. He looks back, looks down on his plate, glances at the bust of Virgil. looks at his diet soda. Shrugs.

This'll do.

The rest of the meal is a discussion about the backside of Beatrice.

2 PM is, for most people in the Western Hemisphere in Office Jobs in Corporations in Cubicles the worst time of day. Jack swallows a 5 Hour Energy Drink. That's two hours more than he needs.

A few minutes before quittin' time, Jacks boss calls him into his office. Sit down, old man, the boss says. He's a good twenty years Jack's senior.

Jacks sits. His stomach gurgles.

First of all, you're not getting fired.

Jack frowns.

Or downsized or transferred or asked to take a pay cut or anything. Tomorrow will be exactly the same as today. Work wise. Want a drink? Jack's boss is being ham-handed at putting Jack at ease, so to put his boss at ease, Jack accepts the drink.

How long you been with us.

Jack's been there longer than his boss has. 10 years or so, he says.

And when you first got here, Jack, you were on fire. Number one spot three months running.

Yep. The drink is a Gin and Tonic. Too much gin. Jack likes tonic.

Since then, you've been in the two and three spot ever since.

And that's bad?

Well, Jack, isn't it? Jenner was number one, then Clay, then Hardee, then O'Brien, then Johnson...

And where are they now.

Washed out I guess. Is that what you're saying? It's better to ride steady than to flame out?

I'm not saying anything. You called me in here.

You're right, I did. Look at this. He showed Jack a sheet of paper, indecipherable.

What is it.

You're number one again.

So all that about not getting fired... ?

Smoke screen! You're back on top! Look, you beat out Sebrel, Voss, Thompson, Hingsen...

Jack's pocket buzzes. He doesn't bother looking at it--it's the carpool. Time to go. Well, that's great, I guess...

Great? It's outstanding! Nobody's ever been number one twice not on a row before. You did it. You made history. The smile on his boss's face was enormous. He was proud. So Jack smiled back.

Alright, well, thanks. He stands up, offers his hand. I, uh, couldn't have done it without you. He adds Boss as they shake hands.

Go out tonight and celebrate, Jack. You're a winner.

Okay. Jack walks out, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He texts Leave without me to Kindle, then Meet me in the city for dinner to his wife.

Jack's got about 2 minutes left to live. Actually, he's been alive his whole life. He's sitting on a park bench, one of those parks tucked away a few block over from one of the busier streets. Not enough land to develop, but enough neighborhood do-gooders to petition the city to keep it green and the benches in good repair. The sun has moved between tall buildings, and it's warm on his face.

He's got a good insurance policy, so when he explodes, his wife and kids will be taken care of. They'll be sad for a while, especially when his son is born. But the birth will end up boosting their spirits. His wife comes from a big family. Death ain't great, but it's been dealt with before.

Jack's feeling pretty good. Not Zen good, not opium good. Just American good. The booze is wearing off a bit. He explodes without much ado. Totally freak thing. Unexpected. The sidewalks is covered with Jack's specks.