The contributions of singular individuals to human history vary both in degree and visibility. The vast majority leave no substantial impact at all, beyond the confines of their little spheres of influence, their little families, their little communities, their little speck of dirt on a bigger speck of dirt in a bigger vacuum in the bigger Mind of God. Such a life is by no means pointless. Spiritual nobility is a state of the soul that anyone can achieve. A few rewrite the trajectory of civilization in a way that cements their legacy as Great, so long as the successive generations maintain and transmit the stories of their Greatness. However, there are a few whose impact is just as significant, but they operate completely in the shadows (whether by choice or fate), receiving no recognition at all. There are the high priests and priestesses who help govern the shape of the future through intentional acts, but these never utter their true names to anyone. Then, there are others whose lives leave a crashing wake on the lakeshore of the real, but their speedboat is invisible and captained by a humble fisherman just minding his own business. Tex Larson was one of those.

Tex never ran for President of the United States or the school board or even the HOA. He never won a gold medal or silver or bronze or even the district championship in a high school extracurricular. He never went to space or Antarctica or even abroad. He never wrote a hit song or a movie script or even a journal. He did do some things, though. He maintained several close friendships and got married and even had children. He kept a steady job and owned a home and even had a healthy retirement fund. He exercised somewhat regularly and ate well and even attended church. For all intents and purposes, he lived a thoroughly ordinary life for his first forty-three years on Earth. And the only people who will ever know that Tex Larson saved the human race in his forty-fourth year are you and me.

One morning, seemingly like any other, Tex awoke, not to find himself transformed into a giant insect, but only to hear the cacophonous alarm and feel the warmth of his wife next to him. He still considered her the most beautiful woman in the world, wrinkles and stretch marks and all. They had a daughter, ten, and a son, seven. His wife groaned and sighed:

Ugh, kill me.

Coffee?

Please.

Anything else?

A lobotomy.

Love you.

Love you too.

An hour later, with the kids at school and his wife running errands, Tex heard an unexpected knock at the door. He opened it, finding before him a man, strangely familiar, roughly his age, and in suit and tie.

Good morning, sir.

Morning.

Do you have a moment to answer a few questions?

Not really, I—

Darkness. When Tex came to, he was seated in a cement room, fluorescently lit, occupied only by himself, the chair, and the man from the door, separated from him by a single pane of glass.

Wha—What do you want from me? I don’t have money.

Mr. Larson, I’m simply conducting an experiment on behalf of a third party. The experiment has been running intermittently for approximately a hundred thousand years. Here, anyway. In other places, it has been running for far longer than that. The party in question is attempting to falsify a hypothesis.

And what hypothesis is that?

Informing the study participant would impact the integrity of the experiment.

I’m not doing anything without knowing what I’m in for.

You’ll simply be given a choice between two outcomes.

And those are?

Option one: you consent to experience severe pain for an unspecified length of time. Option two: you decline, and fifty percent of all living humans die instantly.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Far from it.

Which fifty percent?

Pardon me?

How do you decide who dies?

I don’t decide anything.

Who does then?

Chance.

I’m sorry?

The consequences of the second option are randomly selected.

You said “instantly,” meaning painlessly?

Yes.

And they won’t know they’re dying?

That’s difficult for me to answer.

Why?

Because your notions of death and awareness aren’t sophisticated enough to understand my response.

Oh, fuck off.

You have thirty seconds.

You shitting me?

Twenty-eight.

Wait! How severe is “severe?”

Roughly equivalent to being burned alive. Twenty-four.

For how long?

As I said, unspecified. It could be an eternity or an instant. Twenty-one.

FINE!

“Fine,” what? Ten.

Fuck it, I’ll do it!

Very well. Be seated. Seven.

Tex did as instructed, put his head in his hands, gritted his teeth, and waited.

Three.

Two.

One.

Nothing. Tex looked up and around. The man was still there, staring at him, now sporting the subtlest of smirks.

What happened?

The experiment is over.

I didn’t feel anything.

Ah. As I said, the duration of the pain was unspecified. Had I specified, I’d have informed you that the time to elapse in this case was predetermined as zero.

So that’s it?

That’s it.

No one’s gonna believe this.

Precisely, Mr. Larson. You are, of course, free to disclose this event to whomever you wish. It makes no difference to me or the third party. Now, if you’d be so kind as to close your eyes, and we’ll leave it at that.

Wait.

Yes?

You said “other places.” Did you mean . . . like . . . planets?

I’m not at liberty to say. Now, if you would.

Tex did as he was told. An instant later, he opened his eyes to see the ceiling above his bed. His alarm going off. His wife beside him. The memory more solid than any common dream. It never faded. The third party has authorized me to relay this event for the record. The next iteration of the experiment will be conducted in approximately one year. Expect a knock.

– Luke Shuffield