There is a light, and there is a but­ton.

It is my duty to sit here, to sit here and guard the but­ton: to look at the but­ton but never press it.

Above the but­ton is the light. Above the light, five tiny char­ac­ters etched into a steel plate. The plate is bolted in with two grom­mets. The plate says ARMED.

Be­neath the but­ton is a ma­chine. Its case is bolted to­gether with the older sis­ters of the plate's grom­mets. It is painted blue and made of steel and the blue is flak­ing. Some­times at night, when I am bored of all the ma­chine's blink­ing lights, the cir­cuits open­ing and clos­ing, I peel away bits of the blue paint where it is com­ing off around the grom­mets.

I know there are other rooms in other places just like this one, watched over by other in­signif­i­cant souls. But I do not know them.

I know that in­side my ma­chine, there are cogs and cir­cuits. There are wires that carry in­for­ma­tion in and wires that carry it out. I am not in charge of the in­for­ma­tion; I am in charge only of the out­side of the ma­chine, of keep­ing it clean and safe, being sure the lights are blink­ing where they should blink and are steady where they should be steady. I am in charge of let­ting no one into the room but my re­lief and that is all.

But the but­ton. This but­ton. It is the most beau­ti­ful spec­i­men of a but­ton this in­signif­i­cant soul could pos­si­bly imag­ine. It is the exact size, shape and color of the Player 1 and Player 2 but­tons on an ar­cade ma­chine I re­mem­ber from my child­hood, a Pac­man, a Galaga. Though I have never pressed the but­ton — I can never press the but­ton — I know it will main­tain the springi­ness of a Player 2 but­ton. It won't have been punched so many times that its spring has weak­ened. It won't have been punched so in­sis­tently that it slides down into its slot, a lit­tle cow­ard after all that. No.

This but­ton will be firm and a lit­tle fe­ro­cious. This but­ton will be springy. When I press down on it, it will press back equally. But I will not press down on it. I am not al­lowed. Also, it has a cage.

What a lovely cage. Soft wire woven, firmed. Soft wire woven so closely that it is in fact dif­fi­cult to see the but­ton at all. The cage is there to pro­tect the but­ton from mis­takes and also, from lint. But one night, one night when I couldn't stand it any longer, I lifted the cage. There is an alarm for the cage of course, there must be, but it is a basic alarm. As long as metal is touch­ing the flat plate on which the cage rests, the alarm won't go off.

So that night, that first night when I just couldn't take it any longer, when I just needed to see the but­ton, I first dug around in the scrap pile to find an old knife switch, which I pried out of its holder and slid be­tween the plates.

Then, with three fin­gers on one hand press­ing down so hard, pro­tect­ing me from the alarm, from the blare and the trou­ble, I eased the cover back. Like my very con­science it­self, the hinges re­sisted and squeaked. But I didn't stop. I rolled back the cover, press­ing so hard all the while, and then there it was!

I wanted to cry. It was so red: it was cher­ries, lips, clown noses, straw­ber­ries. It was a can of paint, shiny and deep. It was so clean and so beau­ti­ful, the arc of the but­ton set against the col­lar. The top was just-a-bit con­cave and begged for the pair­ing of a thumb — but no. No touch­ing. I closed the cover.

Of course I couldn't stop think­ing about it. At home in my bed, where every­thing seemed so dull. At the mar­ket I would cruise aisles look­ing for a red that could ever begin to match. No berries were suf­fi­cient. I could test out every lip gloss I could find, but my lips never might match. Per­haps I was being ridicu­lous. Per­haps I should just look again. Noth­ing could be so lovely. It was a hal­lu­ci­na­tion.

I had the metal plate in my pocket. I al­ways held it there, a tal­is­man, a re­minder. I would look again. I did look again. I was not wrong. It was as I ex­pected. And now every night, every night I come and I look at the but­ton be­neath the light, be­neath the cover. Every night pre­cisely at two I press down on the metal and pull back the cover, which slides qui­etly now on oiled hinges, I pull it back and I gaze for just a mo­ment. It brings con­tent­ment when paint peel­ing pales in in­ter­est.

And now it is 1:58. 1:59. In the school-style clock the sec­ond hand sweeps around. I am hold­ing the plate, my com­pan­ion, my col­lab­o­ra­tor. In in goes, not too slow. I hold my breath. These last twenty-four hours I have missed my but­ton, missed its en­tic­ing lit­tle dip. I fold back the cover and then—

ATCHOO! A sneeze. A spasm. How is this pos­si­ble? The metal has clat­tered to the floor. The alarm is going. It blares. It is so loud. Trou­ble is com­ing. Trou­ble is def­i­nite. I will just rest my thumb here for a mo­ment be­fore it is over and I am taken. I will just lightly hold it here and think about the coiled spring and — ATCHOO! The spasm again. I have pressed it. The coil felt so right, but now, now it is much, much too late.

In the other rooms in the other coun­tries, the lights on their ma­chines will be flick­er­ing even faster. Their cages will be com­ing up, they too will fi­nally know the plea­sure of push­ing. And then it will all be over.