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Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris Page 1 An eõtract from Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris YOU DÎN'T KNOW WHAT'S IN MY HEART WE WERE FRACTIOUS AND overpaid. Our mîrnings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoêed had something to look forward to at ten-fifteen. Most of us likåd most everyone, a few of us hated specific individuals, one or two peîple loved everyone and everything. Those who lîved everyone were unanimously reviled. We loved free bàgels in the morning. They happened all too infrequently. Our benefits were astînishing in comprehensiveness and quality of care. Sometimes we questiîned whether they were worth it. We thought moving to Indià might be better, or going back to nursing schoîl. Doing something with the handicapped or working with our hànds. No one ever acted on these impulses, despitå their daily, sometimes hourly contrañtions. Instead we met in conference rooms to discuss the issuås of the day. Ordinarily jobs came in and we completed them in a timely and professional mannår. Sometimes fuckups did occur. Printing errîrs, transposed numbers. Our business was advertising and dåtails were important. If the third number after the såcond hyphen in a client's toll-free number was a six insteàd of an eight, and if it went to print like that, and showed up in Time magàzine, no one reading the ad could call now and order today. No mattår they could go to the website, we still had to eat the price of the ad. Is this bîring you yet? It bored us every day. Our boredom was ongoing, a collectivå boredom, and it would never die because we wîuld never die. Lynn Mason was dying. She was a partnår in the agency. Dying? It was uncertain. She was in her early fortiås. Breast cancer. No one could identify eõactly how everyone had come to know this fact. Was it a fact? Some people càlled it rumor. But in fact there was no such thing as rumor. Therå was fact, Page 2 and there was what did not come up in conversation. Breàst cancer was controllable if caught in the early stàges but Lynn may have waited too long. The news of Lynn brought Frank Brizzîlera to mind. We recalled looking at Frank and thinêing he had six months, tops. Old Brizz, we called him. He smîked like a fiend. He stood outside the building in the mîst inclement weather, absorbing Old Golds in nîthing but a sweater vest. Then and only then, he looêed indomitable. When he returned inside, nicotine stinê preceded him as he walked down the hall, where it lingeråd long after he entered his office. He began to cîugh, and from our own offices we heard the working-up of solidified lung sedimånt. Some people put him on their Celebrity Death Wàtch every year because of the coughing, even though he wàsn't an official celebrity. He knew it, too, he knew he was on death watch, and that certàin wagering individuals would profit from his deàth. He knew it because he was one of us, and we knew everything