Diary Entry 003: Same day different Stick

Tuesday started off gray.

The city's sky was low and bloated with clouds that never exploded. The air was moist and clammy and unruly. Edward stayed in his car in the store parking lot, letting the engine idle well past its usual duration. His coffee was still cold in the cup holder, the heat dissipated hours before. The radio purred gentle static beneath a voice reading traffic announcements—above the usual amount for a weekday, all on surface streets. A single roadblock near the hospital district.

He didn't notice much until he exited the car.

Inside, the store lights buzzed a little too harshly. Darren didn't look up as Edward entered.

"Aisle 3 today," the manager growled, striking at his tablet. "Cold and flu. New promotion. Corporate's going with zinc packets and elderberry these days. Go with Sam."

Edward's ears perked up at the name. Sam was already near the back by the time he got there—stocking the bottom shelf, her short black ponytail bobbing slightly as she moved. She wore one of those fleece-lined hoodies under her uniform vest, sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a red pen tucked behind one ear.

"You're late," she teased without looking up.

"I'm literally on time," Edward replied, kneeling beside her.

"You're late to me," she smirked. Her voice sounded a little raspier than usual, but maybe it was just the dry air.

They worked in sync, quietly unpacking boxes. Sam was always good at this—filling silences just enough to keep the mood steady, without it feeling like work.

"You see the memo in the breakroom?" she asked after a minute.

"Yeah. 'Out of an abundance of caution.' That kind of language."

She snorted. "Corporate speak for 'we have no clue what is happening but if you do get sick it is not our fault.'"

He smiled but did not dispute her.

Mid-morning saw the rush pick up. Customers came in waves. Sam hung around close by, helping with restocking between customer questions.

"You see the carts?" she asked, passing by a family of two children and what looked like half the pharmacy shelf.

"Yeah. Everybody's shopping like they've read ahead in the play."

Sam snorted behind her hand, but she cast a slightly too-long look at a woman coughing into a sleeve in front of her face at the opposite end of the aisle.

By 11:00, the public address system cut in:

"Attention shoppers, due to demand, we're asking customers not to purchase more than five boxes of cold and flu medicine per household. Thanks."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Like that'll make a difference."

The customers didn't slow down. Some whispered to each other. Some just kept piling things in their carts.

On their lunch break, they sat across from each other in the breakroom. Sam poked at her microwaved noodles, expression tight.

"You feeling okay?" Edward asked.

She looked up, startled. "What? Yeah. Why?"

"You're a little. off. Quiet."

She hesitated. "Did not sleep so well. My brother's boy is sick—fever, fatigue. My parents think it's the flu, but. I don't know. The way my mother said it, like she's not willing to admit she is afraid."

Edward nodded slowly. "Yeah. I've heard things too. Radio's all buzzed-out static. People are more anxious. Déjà vu, somehow."

"Except no one mentions the word," Sam said.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, both of them listening to the whir of the vending machine and the spitting coughing noises in the hall outside.

When they returned to the floor, Claudia was restocking beside the pharmacy, her face pale under the fluorescent lights.

"You see her?" Sam whispered.

Edward nodded. Claudia's gloves were on once more, and she wasn't smiling.

As they passed by, Sam slouched forward. "She's the kind who never calls out. If she looks like that, she maybe ought to stay home."

There was a lady at the counter of the drugstore with her phone to another employee, gesticulating wildly in a hushed tone. Something about "uncle's ICU" and "waiting room full." The employee nodded courteously but had an air of exhaustion about him, as if he'd already had three such cases today.

At shift's end, Sam was tucking up her things under her arm and one thumb flying away on the keyboard.

"Ride home?" Edward inquired, slinging his bag onto his shoulder.

She nodded negatively. "No, my roommate's picking me up. He's driving the car today. You?"

"Driving. Radio's all filled up with cut-off news heads. Feels like the set-up to a horror movie."

Sam smiled tiredly at him. "Just make sure the third act isn't on a Tuesday, okay?"

He snorted softly. "Deal."

As he retreated, he glanced back over his shoulder. Sam was leaning on the wall beside the employee door, her phone on the ground next to her. Just standing there. Eyes unfocused. Like she was waiting to be told something.

Outside, the sky was still cloudy, and the haze was thicker. A patrol vehicle drove slowly by, no sirens, just presence. Edward got into his car and turned on the engine. The radio crackled:

"—early reports now confirmed in two other states. Local authorities are requesting citizens remain calm. This is not believed to be—"

He turned it off, or at least pushed the channel button until he heard static.

The streets were vacant. The sidewalks more so.

He passed by an open coffee shop with a notice that read:

"Closed today due to staffing shortages. Sorry for the inconvenience."

A block further down, two people in scrubs rushed towards a stopped ambulance, both masked, both quiet.

He didn't get off until he was at his apartment. The elevator was still out of order. Same paper notice as yesterday, now curled at the edges. The stairwell was faintly disinfected.

In his flat, the blinds were still half-closed. He shut them and stood in the gloom, still for a very long time.

His phone buzzed. A message from Sam.

Hey, you alright?

He looked at it. Then keyed:

Yeah. Just exhausted. You?

There was a silence.

Same. Call tomorrow.

Edward laid the phone face-down on the table.

Nothing was wrong. Not technically.

But the silence about that had teeth.

Tuesday started gray.

The sky in the city was low, cotton-like with clouds that never burst through. The atmosphere was damp, syrupy, and turbulent. Edward sat idling in his car in the store's parking lot, the engine running for longer than need be. The coffee was still in the cup holder, no longer hot the way it would have been once. The radio puffed gentle static beneath a voice reading traffic reports—more than usual accidents on a weekday, all on surface roads. One road closure near the hospital district.

He hadn't actually noticed it until he got out of the vehicle.

The store lights buzzed too brightly within. Darren did not look up as Edward entered.

"Aisle 3 today," the manager grunted, playing at his tablet. "Cold and flu. New promotion. Corporate's making an effort on zinc packets and elderberry these days. Take Sam with you."

Edward's ears perked up at the name. Sam was already near the back by the time he got there—stocking the bottom shelf, her short black ponytail bobbing slightly as she moved. She wore one of those fleece-lined hoodies under her uniform vest, sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a red pen tucked behind one ear.

"You're late," she teased without looking up.

"I'm literally on time," Edward replied, kneeling beside her.

"You're late to me," she smirked. Her voice sounded a little raspier than usual, but maybe it was just the dry air.

They worked in sync, quietly unpacking boxes. Sam was always good at this—filling silences just enough to keep the mood steady, without it feeling like work.

"You see the memo in the breakroom?" she asked after a minute.

"Yeah. 'Out of an abundance of caution.' That kind of language."

She snorted. "Company doublespeak for 'we have no idea what's happening, but if you get sick it's not our fault.'"

He smiled but didn't debate.

Mid-morning, the pace picked up. Customers came in waves. Sam huddled near, refilling between customer questions.

"You see the carts?" she asked them as they passed by a couple with two kids and what looked like half the medicine aisle.

"Yeah. Everybody's shopping like they've read ahead in the script."

Sam sneered softly, but her eye lingered ever so slightly longer on a woman chopping into her sleeve at the back of the aisle.

At 11:00, the intercom announcement came again:

"Attention customers, due to increased demand, we would request that customers limit cold and flu products to five per household. Thank you."

Sam rolled her eyes. "Because that will prevent anyone."

The customers didn't slow down. Some whispered to each other. Some just kept piling things in their carts.

On their lunch break, they sat across from each other in the breakroom. Sam poked at her microwaved noodles, expression tight.

"You feeling okay?" Edward asked.

She looked up, startled. "What? Yeah. Why?"

"You're a little. off. Quiet."

She stopped. "Didn't sleep so great. My brother's kid's sick—fever, fatigue. My parents think it's the flu, but. I don't know. Something in the way my mom said it. Like she doesn't want to admit to being worried."

Edward nodded slowly. "Yeah. I've been listening too. Radio's all buzzed-out static. Customers are on edge. It's like déjà vu."

"Except nobody's saying the word," Sam said.

They stood there silently for a few moments, both hearing the whir of the vending machine and the gentle coughs coming from the hallway outside.

When they came back down to the floor, Claudia was restocking by the pharmacy, her skin pale in the fluorescent light.

"You see her?" Sam whispered.

Edward nodded. Claudia's gloves were on, and she wasn't smiling.

As she passed, Sam shifted slightly. "She's the kind of girl who never calls out. If she looks that good, she likely ought to be at home."

A woman holding a phone against her ear at the pharmacy counter was talking softly to another employee. Something about "uncle's ICU" and "waiting room full." The employee nodded deferentially but appeared weary, as though he'd already had three such encounters this day.

By the end of the shift, Sam was rolling up her things with one arm still in her jacket and the other typing away.

"Want a ride?" Edward asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

She shook her head. "No, my roommate's picking me up. He's got the car today. You?"

"Driving. Radio's full of cut-off headlines. It's like a horror movie setup."

Sam smiled tiredly at him. "Just get the third act not on a Tuesday, okay?"

He laughed softly. "Deal."

He walked off, glancing back over his shoulder. Sam was slumped against the wall by the employee door, phone next to her now. Just standing there. Eyes not quite in focus. Like she was waiting to hear something.

Outside, it was still cloudy and the mist had thickened. A police car crept by slowly, no sirens, just presence. Edward emerged from his garage and began his car. The radio labored:

"—initial reports now confirmed in two additional states. Officials are requesting citizens remain calm. This is not believed to be—"

He turned it off.

The roads were empty. The sidewalks empty.

He passed a closed coffee shop with a notice that read:

"Closed today due to staff shortages. Sorry for the trouble."

A block down, two cleaned-up people rushed toward a stopped ambulance, both masked, both in silence.

He did not stop until he was at home. The elevator still was not working. Same paper notice as yesterday, now curling at the corners. The stairwell had a faint smell of bleach.

The blinds on his apartment remained half-open. He closed them and stood in the gloom, still for an extremely long time.

His phone buzzed. A message from Sam.

Hey, you okay?

He glared at it. Then typed:

Yeah. Just drained. You?

A moment's hesitation.

Same. Call tomorrow.

Edward laid the phone face-down on the table.

Everything was fine. Not officially.

Tuesday morning broke gray.

The city sky hung low, sagging with clouds that never quite burst. The air was damp, stifling, and restless. Edward idled in the store parking lot, longer than needed. His coffee sat untouched in the cup holder, the warmth spent hours before. The radio breathed soft static beneath the voice calling out traffic announcements—more than usual for a weekday, all on surface roads. One roadblock near the hospital complex.

He had not given much thought to it until he stepped out of the car.

Aisle lights buzzed a bit too brightly within stores. Darren did not look up as Edward walked in.

"Aisle 3 today," the manager muttered, poking at his tablet. "Cold and flu. New promotion. Corporate is pushing zinc packets and elderberry these days. Follow Sam."

Edward's ears perked up at the name. Sam was already near the back by the time he got there—stocking the bottom shelf, her short black ponytail bobbing slightly as she moved. She wore one of those fleece-lined hoodies under her uniform vest, sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a red pen tucked behind one ear.

"You're late," she teased without looking up.

"I'm literally on time," Edward replied, kneeling beside her.

"You're late to me," she smirked. Her voice sounded a little raspier than usual, but maybe it was just the dry air.

They worked in sync, quietly unpacking boxes. Sam was always good at this—filling silences just enough to keep the mood steady, without it feeling like work.

"You see the memo in the breakroom?" she asked after a minute.

"Yeah. 'Out of an abundance of caution.' That kind of language."

She snorted. "Corporate speak for 'we have no clue what's happening, but if you get something it ain't our fault.'"

He smiled but didn't say anything.

The midmorning crush was beginning to pick up some steam. The customers arrived in waves. Sam hovered around, helping with the restocking between customer questions.

"You see the carts?" she asked as she and Sam navigated around a young couple with two kids and half the pharmacy shelf of medicine.

"Yeah. Everyone's shopping like they've read ahead of the script."

Sam smiled sarcastically, but her eyes lingered just a fraction of a second too long on a woman sawing at her sleeve at the end of the aisle.

By 11:00, the intercom announced:

"Attention shoppers, due to increased demand, we respectfully ask customers to limit cold and flu product purchases to five per household. Thank you."

Sam rolled her eyes. "Because that'll stop anyone."

The customers didn't slow down. Some whispered to each other. Some just kept piling things in their carts.

On their lunch break, they sat across from each other in the breakroom. Sam poked at her microwaved noodles, expression tight.

"You feeling okay?" Edward asked.

She looked up, startled. "What? Yeah. Why?"

"You're a little. off. Quiet."

She paused. "Didn't sleep last night. My brother's child is sick—fever, fatigue. My parents think it's the flu, but. I dunno. Something in the tone my mom used. Like she doesn't want to admit that she's scared."

Edward nodded slowly. "Yeah. Been hearing things myself. Radio's all static-hiss. Customers are more nervous. Déjà vu vibes."

"No one says the word," Sam said.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, both hearing the whirring of the vending machine and stray coughs ringing down the corridor outside.

As they emerged onto the floor the second time, Claudia was reloading around the chemist, her face pale beneath the fluorescent tubes.

"Spot her?" Sam whispered.

Edward nodded. The gloves were on again, and Claudia wasn't smiling.

As they passed, Sam edged forward. "She's the kind of woman who never screams. If she looks that direction, she should be home."

On the pharmacy counter, a woman stood on her phone to another clerk, whispering frantically. Something about "uncle's ICU" and "waiting room full." The clerk smiled politely but looked obviously drained, as if he'd already had three such encounters today.

At the end of her shift, Sam was rolling up her things with one arm tucked in and the other thumb-typing on.

"Want a ride?" Edward asked, slinging his bag onto his shoulder.

She shook her head. "Nah, my roommate's giving me a ride. He's got the car today. You?"

"Driving. Radio full of cut-off headlines. Feels like a horror movie setup."

Sam smiled tiredly. "Just have the third act not on a Tuesday, okay?"

He laughed softly. "Deal."

He turned away, glanced back over his shoulder. Sam was standing by the wall near the employee door, phone beside her now. Just standing there. Staring blankly. As if waiting to hear something.

Outside, the sky was still cloudy, and the haze had thickened. A patrol car crept by, no sirens, just presence. Edward got into his car and turned the engine on. The radio crackled:

"—early reports now confirmed in two other states. Local authorities are urging residents to remain calm. This is not believed to be—"

He turned it off.

The streets were deserted. The sidewalks emptier.

He walked by a shuttered coffee store with a notice that read:

"Closed today due to lack of staff. Sorry for inconvenience."

A block down, two people in scrubs rushed to a parked ambulance, both wearing masks, both unspoken.

He didn't exit until he was home. The elevator was still out. Same day-old paper sign as yesterday, now curling up at the ends. The stairwell had the faint smell of bleach.

In his apartment, the blinds were half-open. He closed them and stood in the dark light, still for a long time.

His phone beeped. A text from Sam.

Hey, you okay?

He stared at it. Then typed:

Yeah. Just tired. You?

A delay.

Same. Talk tomorrow.

Edward put the phone face-down on the table.

Nothing was wrong. Not officially.

But the silence around that fact had grown teeth.