The spoon made a dull clink against the chipped bowl as Olivia stirred her cereal listlessly. The milk was lukewarm. The cereal itself, off-brand cornflakes from a dented box, was soggy and just this side of going stale, the way paper tastes if you let it sit on your tongue too long.

  She sat cross-legged in her only chair, an old office swivel she’d hauled up three flights when she moved in, and chewed mechanically, eyes drifting across the classifieds.

  The Trenton Herald. Wednesday edition. Eight pages, half of which were ads for payday loans and mattresses.

  She wore her favorite hoodie (black, peeling graphic of a snarling wolf across the back), ears perched proudly on her head—tan and black German Shepherd fuzz that twitched if you looked at them too long. The matching tail clipped to her waistband like a stubborn badge of pride. She didn’t bother taking them off on her days off anymore. Who was she trying to impress? The upstairs neighbor who played polka death metal at 2 a.m.? The roaches?

  Another spoonful. Another sigh. A job listing for a warehouse position—"Must lift 75 pounds regularly, $13 per hour." Pass. Another: Door-to-door energy sales. Hell no. Her eyes flicked to the bottom corner of the page.

  That’s when she saw it.

  HELP WANTED: Receptionist / Front Desk

  OtherWorlds Media seeks a reliable, personable receptionist for front desk duties.

  Applicants should have strong organizational and clerical skills, and be comfortable working with the public — and with unusual co-workers.

  Applicants from all walks of life welcome.

  Compensation:

  Room and board provided.

  Monthly stipend with commensurate pay.

  Full medical, dental, and vision coverage included.

  Hours:

  Monday–Thursday, 9:00 a.m. – 5:00 p.m.

  Fridays, 9:00 a.m. – 1:00 a.m.

  Weekends off.

  Costumes not required, but highly suggested.

  Apply in person:

  OtherWorlds Media Studio

  Grover’s Mill, New Jersey

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Yes, Olivia. The Signal is calling you.

  She blinked.

  "...What the hell?" she murmured.

  She read it again. Then a third time. She looked around her apartment as if expecting someone to leap out and say it was a prank. But the only movement was the slow drip from the kitchen faucet and the tail of her fursuit peeking from the garment bag by her closet.

  The ad knew her name.

  No. That was stupid. Coincidence. Probably some culty marketing trick. She'd seen enough internet rabbit holes to know how easy it was to feel "called" when you were desperate.

  But still.

  Room and board. Medical. A job with hours that didn’t suck her soul dry. And no sleazy temp agency boss trying to "accidentally" brush up against her every time he handed out new assignments.

  Her cereal sat abandoned as she got up, crossed to her tiny dresser, and pulled out her least wrinkled black slacks and the blue button-up shirt that didn’t scream “retail drone.” She clipped her ears back on tighter, combed down a stray cowlick, and fastened the tail with a little more ceremony than usual. A good tail never hurt a first impression.

  She pulled on her trench coat, grabbed her canvas messenger bag (patched, fading, but trustworthy), and locked the door behind her.

  The bus to Grover’s Mill was infrequent. She had to walk six blocks and wait forty-five minutes in the muggy sun at a stop where even the pigeons looked disinterested in surviving.

  But for once, she didn’t care.

  The Signal, whatever that was, was calling.

  And she had nothing left to lose.

  The bus ride to Grover’s Mill took an hour and a half, not counting the unscheduled detour when a tire blew out near Hightstown. Olivia spent most of it staring out the scratched window, earbuds in, playlist looping low-fi synth and ambient howls. It calmed her.

  She'd never been to Grover’s Mill before. The town was one of those nowhere blips that even GPS apps second-guessed, a cluster of buildings smeared along a pond and a few sleepy streets.

  The bus dropped her off at the end of Clarksville Road, and from there she walked.

  The air smelled like moss and something older—earthy, faintly electric. The trees leaned in close overhead, their branches forming a shifting canopy.

  She almost missed the building.

  It didn’t shout for attention. Didn’t have to. Tucked just off the road, behind a low iron and stone fence, stood a three or four story office building; the kind of place you’d assume was long since abandoned. The windows were dusty, the parking lot cracked and pockmarked. Ivy crawled up the outer walls like nature trying to reclaim it out of boredom.

  A rusting broadcast tower loomed above the roof, crooked against the sky like an antenna raised to catch thoughts from the stars.

  And over the glass double doors, a hand-painted, slightly faded sign read:

  OtherWorlds Media, est. —

  There was a date there. She was sure of it. Her eyes slid past it every time she tried to focus.

  She pushed the gates open (they didn’t resist, they never did), walked up the uneven path, and pulled the front doors wide.