9.

"It is not in doing what you like, but in liking what you do that is the secret of happiness." – J. M. Barrie

One year ago…

Dahlia stared at the ceiling of the prison cell above her cot, counting the number of tiles for the umpteenth time. At least it gave her something to do. She had run out of reading the limited amount of books provided for the inmates.

Suddenly, the sound of her cell door unlocked roused her from her counting.

A prison guard, a buff woman with buck teeth, entered.

"Yo, Getz, you have a visitor."

Dahlia blinked, puzzled. No one had visited her since the day she had entered this damn place. She didn't think she would see anyone either, not for the twenty plus years she would be in prison for double homicide.

"You sure they came to see me?" Dahlia asked.

"You questionin' me?"

"No, I would never do that."

She pushed herself off of her butt and headed for the door. The guard led her to the typical visiting room, pushed her in, and left her.

Dahlia stared around. It was a simple room with a plain plastic table and a chair on either side. She expected her guest to be sitting in the far chair, but instead he was standing in one of the corners, leaning against the wall.

She had never seen him in her life. The man was tall, probably in his early sixties, with greying hair covered with a grey bowler hat. His suit was old, but nicely fitted and sleek. In his right hand he held a thin wood walking stick, which he tapped impatiently on the floor. When she entered, however, he stopped and looked her up and down.

"Dahlia Getz?" His voice was higher and slightly nasally, with a thin British accent.

Dahlia nodded slowly. "Yes. Who are you?"

He came forward delicately, his abnormally long nose stuck slightly in the air. "Miss Getz, my name is Elat Yriaf." He thrust his card forward and she took it slowly. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Cautiously, Dahlia took one of the seats and Mr. Yriaf took the opposite one.

"Miss Getz, I have an offer for you."

"Excuse me, but I don't even know you. Why would I—"

He interrupted her before she could continue. "Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."

"Pardon?"

"Women can always put things in fewest words. Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthen it out."

Dahlia crossed her arms. "Are you trying to insult me?"

"Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly, then your love would also change."

"Hold it! Are you quoting Shakespeare? That's Romeo and Juliet, right? And the last one was Oliver Twist, and Pride and Prejudice. Why the hell are you quoting the classics?"

Mr. Yriaf smiled and mirrored her action by crossing his arms. "I'm impressed. You know your classical literature."

"Well, I don't have much else to do in this hellhole. Look, did you know my mother?"

He shook his head. "Unfortunately, no, and I feel that lack of acquaintanceship most profusely. No, I knew your father when he was very young."

"My father?" Dahlia had never met her father. He had died before she was born. "Even so, why are you here? I don't even remember my father."

"I came to offer you a job."

Dahlia stared at him cynically. "A job? Dude, I'm in prison. I can't have a job, unless you count laundry duty as a job."

"No, I mean I can get you out of jail."

"Pardon?"

"I am the owner and director of LEA. It stands for Literary Extraction Agency."

"Literary Extra—what? What kind of company is that?"

"Your father worked for me before he met your mother. He was my brightest employees, and I was sad to lose him."

"Yes, yes, how tragic for you. But what does the company do?"

"You're sarcastic like him too." He leaned closer, uncrossing his arms and folds his hands on the table. "My organization examines literary works on a deeper level. In essence, we look for the vital part of the story and keep it for our data. We store it to gain a deeper sense into understanding of the world."

Dahlia blinked. "Right…so you guys are scholars?"

"Of a sort. We are more hands-on than a regular scholar would be, though."

"How so?"

"That matter is delicate, and I must ask you not to repeat what I am about to say to anyone."

"Yeah, cause I totally have friends in this prison. Who do expect me to talk to: the laundry?"

His smile was faint, but it was there. "One man created a type of device—a bit like a Star Trek transporter—that can transport people wearing certain devices into literary works. Once there, they have a mission to get something and get out. The particulars, we will get to later. However, a transportee must never look at the document picked up in the story. How's that?"

She wasn't sure if this was a dream or a nightmare—maybe he was a lunatic. "Right, so you want me to work for you by going into literary works and collecting things, which sounds like a completely sane thing to do? Why?"

"I cannot tell you that much. I and a select few are the only ones who know."

"Why would I take a job that you won't tell me anything rational about?"

"Because I can get you out of prison if you accept the job."

Dahlia paused. She had been in here for a year…a year since her mother died. She had graduated high school in prison. She had celebrated her eighteenth birthday in prison. This job, though obscure, seemed like a dream come true.

"But how would you be able to get me out of prison."

"Will you take the job?"

"It can't be much worse than this, can it?"

Mr. Yriaf smiled and reached into his jacket, pulling out a document and a pen. Placing it on the table, he pushed it over to her. "If you're willing, sign here."

Dahlia glanced down at the document. Was this what the devil's contract looked like? She glanced over the contents. It was one page long. In summary, it was pretty much a silence agreement to not tell anything learned about LEA to anyone under pain of prosecution. She signed it, knowing she would probably regret it later.

Taking the paper and pen, he put it back in his pocket and reached out his hand to shake hers. "It'll be a pleasure to work with you, Dahlia."

"Great, so how are you getting me released from prison."

As she said those words, she took his hand and, in an instant, the world fell away and, when it returned, they were in an entirely white room. Dahlia dropped his hand and took a step back.

"What the hell!" She voiced, her tone echoed and distant. Where were they?

Mr. Yriaf gestured around him. "Welcome to LEA, Dahlia. From this day forth, you are one of my agents. You will no longer by Dahlia Getz, you are Dahlia Wood. The girl you were before has been erased as if you never existed. You are free to live a life outside of prison, without a shadow hanging over your head. You only need to work for me."

Dahlia turned towards him, narrowing her eyes. "For how long?"

"Until you turn twenty."

"But that's only two years."

"True, but you can choose to stay longer, if you like. Come, you should meet the other workers."

"Wait, is Elat Yriaf your real name?"

"No, why?"

"Because it's fairy tale backwards."

"Precisely."

Dahlia shook her head as her new boss gestured her out of a huge transporting machine and into her new life.