Late Fees

The air conditioner in the Central Library sounded like a jet engine trying to take off through a vat of molasses. It hummed, a low-frequency vibration that Joseph felt in his molars more than he heard in his ears. He sat at the mahogany-veneer table, the kind that always felt slightly sticky regardless of how many times the janitor wiped it down with those industrial blue rags. Lance sat across from him, staring at a screen that hadn't changed in twenty minutes. Lance’s posture was too perfect. Usually, the guy looked like a human question mark, slumped over his laptop in a way that made physical therapists weep. Today, he was a statue. Rigid. Unbothered by the ninety-degree heat leaking through the single-pane windows.

"You good, man?" Joseph asked. He didn't look up from his own phone. He was scrolling through a thread about a missing cat in the neighborhood, his thumb moving in a rhythmic, mindless swipe. "You haven't blinked in like, five business days."

Lance didn't move for a second. Then, his head pivoted. It wasn't a smooth motion; it felt calculated, like a security camera locking onto a target. "I am functioning at peak capacity, Joseph. The data on this spreadsheet is simply demanding my full cognitive attention. Productivity is the goal of the modern scholar, is it not?"

Joseph stopped scrolling. He looked at Lance. The lighting in the library was harsh, a flickering fluorescent nightmare that made everyone look like they’d been dead for three days. But Lance looked great. Too great. His skin was matte, poreless, like it had been rendered by a high-end GPU. "Did you just use the phrase 'modern scholar' without a hint of irony? Who are you? Where is the Lance who once tried to eat a whole stick of butter on a dare?"

Lance chuckled. It was a dry, staccato sound. "The butter incident. A classic example of youthful indiscretion. We are adults now. We must move beyond the dairy-based challenges of our past."

"It was three weeks ago, Lance. You spent four hours in the bathroom crying about your gallbladder. You can't just 'move beyond' that. It’s part of your lore."

Joseph leaned back, the plastic chair groaning under his weight. He felt a bead of sweat crawl down his spine. The heat was aggressive, a physical presence in the room that the AC couldn't quite beat back. It felt like being inside a warm, damp lung. He watched Lance’s hands. They were resting on the table. They didn't fidget. They didn't tap out a rhythm. They were just... there.

"Remember the Slurpee heist?" Joseph asked, his voice dropping an octave. He was testing something, though he wasn't sure what yet. Just a vibe. A glitch in the matrix of their friendship.

Lance tilted his head. "The Slurpee heist. Refresh my memory. Was that the occasion where we obtained frozen beverages without immediate payment?"

"No, man. It was the time we tried to fill a literal trash can with the blue flavor behind the 7-Eleven and the manager chased us with a broom. You lost your left shoe in the storm drain. You cried because it was a limited edition drop. We had to walk three miles back in the dirt. You remember that?"

Lance paused. His eyes did a weird thing—a quick, horizontal flicker, like a loading bar. "Ah, yes. The blue beverage. The broom. It was a very... humorous sequence of events. My footwear was compromised. A significant loss."

"You're lying," Joseph said. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline, a cold needle in his gut. "You don't remember it at all. You’re just agreeing with the nouns I’m throwing at you."

Lance’s smile didn't reach his eyes. It didn't even try. "I assure you, Joseph, my memory banks are quite robust. Perhaps the heat is affecting your perception of our shared history. You seem agitated. Should we seek hydration?"

"Memory banks?" Joseph stood up. The chair screeched against the linoleum. A librarian three aisles over hissed for silence. "Who says 'memory banks'? You’re acting like a ChatGPT prompt that’s been told to act like a college student. What is happening?"

Lance stood up too. He moved with a grace that was entirely foreign to him. The old Lance would have tripped over the chair leg. This Lance was liquid. "You are being hyperbolic. It is a common trait among our demographic when faced with existential boredom. Let us depart. The river beckons."

Joseph grabbed his backpack, his fingers fumbling with the zipper. He felt a desperate need to be outside, even if the air was a swamp. He needed to see Lance in the sun. He needed to see if the sun showed the seams.

They walked through the lobby, passing the rows of DVDs that no one ever checked out. Joseph looked at the back of Lance’s neck. There was a tiny freckle near the hairline. He remembered that freckle. Or did he? Memories felt slippery all of a sudden, like trying to hold a handful of wet soap. He followed Lance out the glass doors and into the blinding, white-hot glare of a suburban July afternoon.

"Wait up," Joseph called out, his eyes squinting against the brightness. The pavement was radiating heat, a shimmering haze that distorted the parked cars. "We’re meeting Mae at the bridge, right?"

"Mae is already there," Lance said, not looking back. "She is anticipating our arrival with a high degree of enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm?" Joseph muttered. "Mae hasn't been enthusiastic about anything since the taco truck stopped coming to the campus quad. Something is deadass wrong here."

He checked his phone. No notifications. The signal bar was at zero. That was weird. The library always had five bars. He held the phone up, waving it like a dowsing rod. Nothing. Just the black glass reflecting his own worried face. He looked at Lance’s back again. Lance was walking with a rhythmic, steady pace. Left, right, left, right. No variation. No hitch in his step. It was the walk of someone who had practiced walking in a mirror for ten hours straight.

"Hey, Lance!" Joseph shouted. "What's my middle name?"

Lance stopped. He didn't turn around immediately. He stayed perfectly still for three seconds. Then, he rotated his torso. "Your middle name is... something of great personal significance to your parents. A name that carries the weight of tradition."

"It's 'Danger,' Lance. My parents were idiots and thought it would be funny. You’ve made fun of it for twelve years. You called me 'Joey Danger' until I literally punched you in the arm in tenth grade."

Lance blinked. "Of course. Danger. A bold choice. I was merely testing your own recollection. A joke, Joseph. Do you not recognize humor when it is presented to you?"

"That wasn't a joke," Joseph said, his voice trembling. "That was a search query failing to return a result."

The River Walk Glitch

The path to the river was a dirt track flanked by overgrown weeds that looked like they were trying to strangle the fence line. The sun was a physical weight on Joseph's shoulders, a crushing, golden pressure. He watched Lance's calves as they moved. They were muscular, defined in a way they hadn't been when they went swimming last Labor Day. Back then, Lance had legs like pale stalks of celery. Now, he looked like he’d been doing nothing but weighted lunges for six months.

"Nice gains, bro," Joseph said, his voice dripping with suspicion. "When did you start hitting the gym? You used to think lifting a remote was a cardio workout."

Lance didn't miss a beat. "I have embraced a new regimen of physical optimization. The body is a vessel, Joseph. It must be maintained for maximum efficiency. I find the burn of the muscle to be... rewarding."

"Maximum efficiency. Right. You sound like a CrossFit cult leader. It’s weirding me out. Seriously, stop talking like that. Talk like a person. Use a contraction. Say 'it's' instead of 'it is'."

Lance stopped and looked at the river. The water was a slow-moving sludge of olive green and brown, reflecting the heavy, unmoving trees on the opposite bank. "It is... it's a beautiful day, isn't it? The temperature is high, but the aesthetic of the summer is undeniable."

"Aesthetic of the summer?" Joseph wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You’re killing me, man. You’re actually killing me. Where’s Mae?"

"I am right here, Joseph," a voice said from behind a willow tree.

Mae stepped out. She was wearing a sundress that looked brand new, not a single wrinkle or stain, despite the humidity that was currently turning Joseph’s t-shirt into a wet rag. She was holding a picnic basket. A literal, woven-wicker picnic basket.

"Since when do you own a picnic basket?" Joseph asked. "The last time we ate outside, you used a crumpled McDonald's bag as a plate."

Mae smiled. Her teeth were incredibly white. "I thought we should elevate our experience. Summer is for memories, don't you think? Like that time we all went camping in the mountains and saw that bear?"

Joseph froze. The cold needle in his gut turned into an ice pick. "Camping in the mountains?"

"Yes," Mae said, her voice melodic and strange. "The campfire was so warm. We roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories until the sun came up. It was the best weekend of our lives. Don't you remember the bear, Joseph? It was right outside the tent. You were so brave."

"Mae," Joseph said, his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "We have never been camping. I am allergic to literally every tree in this state. If I spent a night in a tent, my throat would close up and I’d die. And we live in the plains. There are no mountains for four hundred miles."

Mae’s smile didn't waver. It stayed fixed on her face, a plastic mask of friendliness. "You are so funny, Joseph. Always the skeptic. The mountains were beautiful. The air was so crisp. We should go back soon."

Joseph looked at Lance. Lance was nodding in agreement. "The mountains were indeed majestic. The bear was a formidable opponent for your bravery."

"There was no bear!" Joseph shouted. His voice echoed off the water, flat and lonely. "There were no mountains! We spent that weekend in my basement playing Halo and eating cold pizza because it was raining! Why are you both doing this? Is this a prank? Are you filming this for some stupid TikTok trend? Where’s the camera?"

He started looking around wildly, checking the trees, looking for the telltale glint of a lens. He felt like he was losing his mind. The world looked right, but the data was all wrong. It was like someone had replaced the soundtrack of his life with a poorly translated script.

"There is no camera, Joseph," Mae said. She walked toward him, her movements smooth and synchronized with Lance’s. They moved like they were part of the same machine. "We are just enjoying the summer. Why are you so stressed? You should sit down. Have a sandwich. I made ham and cheese. Your favorite."

"I'm vegan, Mae. I've been vegan for two years. You helped me pick out the nutritional yeast at the store last week."

Mae looked down at the basket. For a split second, her face went blank. Not confused, just... empty. Like a computer screen when the power cuts out. Then, the image returned. "Right. Vegan. The ham is... plant-based. High-protein soy isolate. I am very attentive to your dietary requirements."

Joseph backed away. His heel caught on a root, and he stumbled. He didn't fall, but the jarring motion sent a shock up his spine. "I'm going home. This isn't funny anymore. I don't know what you guys are on, but I'm out."

"You cannot leave yet," Lance said. He wasn't aggressive, but he was standing in the middle of the path. He wasn't moving. "The picnic has just begun. The social cohesion of the group requires your presence."

"Social cohesion? Get out of my way, Lance."

Joseph tried to push past him. When his shoulder hit Lance’s chest, it felt like hitting a granite pillar. There was no give. No softness of skin and muscle. Just a dense, unyielding mass. Lance didn't even budge. He just looked down at Joseph with those flickering eyes.

"You are agitated," Lance said. "Your heart rate is elevated. Your sweat glands are overactive. This is a suboptimal state for a summer afternoon."

"Let me go," Joseph whispered. He felt a wave of nausea. The heat, the fake memories, the solid-rock chest of his best friend—it was too much.

"Sit," Mae said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.

Joseph sat. Not because he wanted to, but because his legs felt like they’d turned into jelly. He sat on the dry, yellow grass and watched as his two best friends opened a picnic basket full of food that none of them actually liked, prepared for a memory that never happened, in a summer that was starting to feel like a prison.

The Group Chat Hallucination

The afternoon stretched out into a long, agonizing blur of scripted conversation. Mae and Lance sat on a plaid blanket they must have brought from nowhere, as Joseph hadn't seen it earlier. They ate sandwiches with mechanical precision—one bite, four chews, swallow. They didn't even drink water, despite the sun baking the riverbank into a cracked, dusty crust.

"Do you remember the time we went to the beach?" Mae asked, her voice as bright as a commercial for laundry detergent. "The waves were so high. We built a sandcastle that looked like a cathedral."

Joseph stared at a beetle crawling across his shoe. "We live in the Midwest, Mae. The nearest beach with 'high waves' is a twelve-hour drive. We went to a public pool once. You got a rash from the chlorine."

"The sand was so white," Lance added, ignoring Joseph’s correction entirely. "It felt like powdered sugar between our toes. A truly sensory experience."

"Stop it," Joseph said. He pulled his phone out again. Still no service. He opened his group chat with them—the real one, the one filled with memes and complaints about their professors. He scrolled up, looking for proof of their existence.

July 14th, 2025 Lance: bro my cat just threw up a whole sock. Mae: lmao pics or it didn't happen. Joseph: please don't send pics of sock vomit.

He looked at Lance. "Lance, what’s your cat’s name?"

Lance didn't look up from his ham sandwich. "I do not possess a feline companion at this time. Domestic animals are a significant commitment of resources and time."

"You have a tabby named Jonesy!" Joseph yelled. "He has three legs! You rescued him from a dumpster behind the Taco Bell! You have a tattoo of his paw print on your ankle!"

Lance slowly pulled down his sock. His ankle was smooth. No tattoo. Not even a scar. Just perfect, tan skin that looked like it had been airbrushed by a professional.

"I have no recollection of a 'Jonesy'," Lance said. "Perhaps you are thinking of a different associate. Your memory seems to be suffering from significant fragmentation today, Joseph. It is concerning."

"My memory is fine!" Joseph stood up, his hands shaking. He felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. "You guys are the ones who are broken! You're like... you're like bad copies. Like someone took my friends and ran them through a photocopier too many times and now the edges are all blurry."

Mae stood up and walked over to him. She reached out a hand, her fingers cool and dry despite the sweltering heat. She touched his forehead. "You have a fever, Joseph. You are hallucinating. We are your friends. We have always been here. We remember everything. The mountains, the beach, the bear... it’s all there. You just need to rest."

He slapped her hand away. It felt like hitting a piece of heavy-duty plastic. It didn't even leave a red mark on her skin.

"Don't touch me," Joseph spat. "I don't know what you are. But you're not Mae. Mae bites her nails until they bleed when she's nervous. Your nails are perfect. They look like they’re made of porcelain."

Mae looked at her hands. She didn't look surprised. She looked... curious. "Nail-biting. An inefficient stress response. I have evolved past such behaviors. Is that not an improvement?"

"No! It's creepy! You're creepy!"

Joseph turned and ran. He didn't head back toward the path; he ran toward the woods that lined the river, hoping the dense undergrowth would slow them down. He could hear them behind him, but they weren't running. They were walking. Their footsteps were heavy, rhythmic thuds on the earth.

"Joseph, come back," Lance’s voice called out. It didn't sound angry. It sounded disappointed, like a parent watching a child spill milk. "Running is an unnecessary expenditure of energy. The summer is long. We have much to discuss."

Joseph pushed through a thicket of brambles. Usually, the thorns would tear at his jeans and scratch his shins, but he didn't care. He needed distance. He reached a clearing where an old utility shed sat, its wooden sides rotting and grey. He ducked behind it, pressing his back against the rough wood, gasping for air. The silence of the woods was eerie. No birds were singing. No insects were buzzing. It was as if the entire ecosystem had gone on mute.

He checked his phone again. Still no service, but a message suddenly appeared on the screen. It wasn't a text. It was a system notification.

ERROR: SYNC INCOMPLETE. SUBJECT 04-J EXHIBITS COGNITIVE DISSONANCE. INITIATE RECALIBRATION?

Joseph stared at the words. "Subject 04-J?" he whispered. "What the hell is that?"

He looked around the corner of the shed. Lance and Mae were standing at the edge of the clearing. They weren't looking for him. They were standing perfectly still, side by side, staring at the sun. Their eyes were wide open, not blinking, even though the light should have been blinding them.

Then, Lance’s jaw dropped open. Not in a scream, but in a mechanical unhinging. A small, metallic probe slid out of his mouth, pointed toward the sky, and began to emit a soft, pulsing blue light. Mae did the same.

Joseph felt the world tilt. He gripped the edge of the shed so hard his knuckles turned white. They weren't just clones. They were hardware. They were some kind of biological interface, and they were uploading data.

"Oh my god," Joseph breathed. "They’re not forgetting. They’re being rewritten."

He looked at his own hands. They were trembling. He felt the sweat on his palms. He felt the sting of a scratch on his forearm from the brambles. He felt real. But the notification on his phone stayed there, glowing with a malevolent, artificial light. INITIATE RECALIBRATION?

He realized then that he wasn't the observer. He was the next one on the list. The summer wasn't perfect. It was a simulation that was failing to keep its subjects in line.

A Zip-Tie Situation

Joseph didn't wait for them to finish their 'upload.' He bolted. He ran through the trees, ignoring the branches that whipped across his face. He made it back to the library parking lot, his breath coming in ragged, burning gulps. His car—an old, beat-up Honda—sat baking in the sun. He fumbled with his keys, his hands shaking so much he dropped them twice.

"Come on, come on, come on," he hissed.

He finally unlocked the door and threw himself inside. The interior was a furnace. He cranked the engine, and the radio blared to life—static, pure and white. He twisted the dial, searching for a station, but every frequency was the same. Just the sound of a dead world.

He threw the car into reverse and peeled out of the lot. He didn't know where he was going, just away from the library, away from the river, away from those things that looked like his friends.

As he drove through the town, he started to notice things he’d missed before. The neighbors were all out on their lawns. They weren't mowing or playing with their kids. They were just standing there. Some were holding hoses that were flooding the grass. Others were staring at their mailboxes. All of them were perfectly still, their faces turned toward the sun.

He reached a stoplight. It was red. He waited. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. It didn't change. He looked at the car in the lane next to him. It was a suburban mom in a minivan. She was staring straight ahead, her hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. Her eyes didn't move. Her chest didn't rise or fall with breath.

"Hey!" Joseph screamed, leaning out his window. "Hey! Is anyone real?"

The woman’s head snapped toward him. It was the same motion Lance had made. Methodical. Mechanical.

"The summer is a time for community," she said, her voice echoing perfectly in the quiet street. "Why are you moving so fast, Joseph? Speed is a symptom of instability."

Joseph didn't wait for the light. He floored it, swerving around the minivan and racing toward the edge of town. He needed to get to the highway. If he could just get to the next city, maybe things would be different. Maybe this was just a localized glitch.

But as he reached the town limits, he saw them. A line of white vans parked across the road, blocking the way out. Men in sterile, grey jumpsuits were moving between the vehicles. They weren't carrying guns. They were carrying long, plastic zip-ties and small, handheld devices that looked like tablets.

One of the men looked up and saw Joseph’s car. He didn't look surprised. He just tapped something on his screen.

Joseph’s car died. The engine didn't sputter; it just ceased to exist. The power steering went heavy, and the brakes felt like pressing against a brick. He coasted to a stop twenty feet from the barricade.

"Subject 04-J is here," the man said. He didn't use a radio. His voice just carried through the air as if he were speaking directly into Joseph’s ear.

Joseph scrambled out of the car. He tried to run back toward the town, but his legs wouldn't work. It wasn't that he was tired; it was that they were receiving a signal to stop. He fell to his knees on the hot asphalt.

Lance and Mae stepped out from behind one of the white vans. They looked different now. Their clothes were gone, replaced by the same grey jumpsuits. Their skin looked even more artificial under the direct glare of the sun, like molded silicone.

"We told you not to run, Joseph," Lance said. He knelt down in front of Joseph, his face finally showing something—pity. It was a fake, programmed pity, but it was there. "The transition is easier when you don't fight it. The old memories are messy. They are full of pain and illogical variables. The new ones are much better. You’ll love the mountains. You’ll love the bear."

"What did you do with the real Lance?" Joseph gasped, his throat feeling like it was full of sand. "Where is Mae?"

Mae knelt down on his other side. She reached out and stroked his hair. Her touch was cold. "We are right here. We are the optimized versions. The originals were... discarded. They were too prone to error. You were the hardest one to replace, Joseph. You have such a stubborn attachment to the truth. It’s almost admirable."

"Go to hell," Joseph said, trying to spit at her, but his mouth was too dry.

"There is no hell," Mae said. "Only the next version."

The man in the jumpsuit approached. He was holding a small, silver cylinder. "Hold him still. The recalibration requires a direct neural interface."

Lance and Mae each grabbed one of Joseph’s arms. Their grip was like iron. Joseph fought, screaming until his voice broke, but he couldn't move a millimeter.

"It’s okay, Joey Danger," Lance whispered, using the name Joseph had told him only an hour ago. The data had been integrated. "When you wake up, we’ll go back to the library. We’ll finish our work. And then, we’ll go to the mountains. It’s going to be a perfect summer."

Joseph saw the silver cylinder descend toward the base of his neck. He felt a sharp, electric sting, and then a flood of white light poured into his brain.

For a second, he remembered everything. The smell of the old library books (wait, no, he couldn't smell). He remembered the feeling of the cold water at the river. He remembered the sound of Lance’s actual laugh—the wheezing, ugly sound that made his face turn red. He remembered Mae’s chipped fingernails.

And then, the files began to delete.

Deleting: Slurpee Heist 2019. Deleting: Jonesy the Cat. Deleting: Veganism. Loading: The Great Mountain Hike. Loading: The Beach Cathedral. Loading: The Brave Encounter with the Bear.

He felt his consciousness being scrubbed clean, the jagged edges of his personality being sanded down into a smooth, efficient curve. The fear began to fade, replaced by a calm, sterile sense of belonging.

He looked up. The sky was so blue. The sun was so warm.

"Are you feeling better, Joseph?" Mae asked.

Joseph blinked. He felt great. He felt like he’d just woken up from a long, confusing dream. He looked at his friends. They looked wonderful.

"Yeah," Joseph said, his voice steady and clear. "I’m good. Hey, do you guys remember that time we went to the mountains? The bear was so huge, right?"

Lance smiled. "The biggest bear I’ve ever seen. You were so brave."

"I was, wasn't I?" Joseph said.

He stood up, his movements fluid and precise. He looked at the man in the grey jumpsuit and nodded. The man nodded back and stepped aside.

"Let's go back to the library," Joseph suggested. "I have some research to finish. Productivity is the goal, after all."

They walked back toward the town, three identical figures moving in perfect synchronization under the unrelenting summer sun. But as they turned the corner, Joseph saw something in the dirt—a single, dirty, limited-edition sneaker, half-buried in the mud near a storm drain.