“That sounds nice…” Clara heard herself say.
“It’s a bit more…dangerous…than what you’re accustomed to. But we can talk about that when you get here.”
“Forrrrr shuuuure,” she intoned, and already the vowels were lengthening. Clara was mildly aware of her fingers stretched, then her forearms, all the way up to her shoulders, which seemed to be miles from the desk now, nowhere near the keyboard or mouse. Long forgotten, she thought. Soon remembered. Or something. She was receding. She was growing. She was rowing backward, a sculler on a plane of clear, flat water so sharp and mirrored it felt like glass.
“Hang on an aeon, here,” said the worker bee. “This is going to sting a little.”
Then Clara Planck was pulled backward, flung forward, far and near, here and then, finally, too soon—
Into her new position.