The manager at Fred Meyer takes out a pen and poises his hand to write. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” he asks.

I clear my throat.

“I am in Paris. I am strolling down the rue Napoleon in winter, and thinking of a particular girl in a particular cafe, and the wine list at Fouquet’s, and the way the shadow on the eiffel tower creeps across itself in the waning light.

“An old man shuffles down the icy sidewalk, his little dog straining in eager circles at the end of its leash. I am thinking of what it might be like to be an old man, and I decide that if I have to be an old man anywhere, I would settle for living here on the rue Napoleon and letting my little dog pull me along through the snow.

“I unfold the envelope again and feel the presence of the letter inside. I don’t need to read it again to know that it still says the same thing.

“A laser beam shatters the face of a boulangerie a hundred yards ahead of me. From behind an apartment building a martian tripod strides into view, framed by the four story offices on either side of the street. The control bubble swivels so that its single red eye is focused in my direction, and after scanning for three full seconds, it takes a step towards me. A second later its pulse cannon swings up from a panel on its undercarriage and by reflex only I dive out of the way as three bursts from its tip turn snow into steam and pavement into rubble.

“I am thrown by the blast and when I gain control of my momentum I rise into a crouch and hear the sound of its coolant system draining off heat from the laser. I lob an electro-magnetic grenade from behind a snow drift and when it flashes I know I’ve bought myself a couple seconds, so I make a dash for a nearby alley as its control bubble whirrs and clicks itself back into calibration.

“The laser pistol is in my hand now, and warming my fingers through the gloves. The earth is throbbing, and I can feel the machine’s eye on me, even through the wall. I think I can hear other machines approaching in the distance, so I admit to myself that I am doomed.

“A part of me says, ‘the resistance has tanks of its own, they might be what you are hearing,’ but even so I will not wait for them. I’m no martyr, but one must not be afraid to die. I wrap my fingers around the pistol grip and think of David with his five smooth stones.”

After fifteen minutes, the manager finishes writing my answer on the back side of his piece of paper. “Ok,” he proceeds, “do you have any prior experience in retail?”