by Ryan Fagan
“The Replacement Shift” placed fifth in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2025 Fall Fiction Contest.
I clock in at 6:02 p.m., and the scanner greets me like a metronome.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The lights hum too bright for dusk, carts yawn, doors breathe us in and out. The start of the evening shift means sunlight still bleeding through the front windows, soft and sickly, like a promise the building won’t keep.
Hannah’s already at Guest Services, rolling quarters. Last week, we made up a song about the broken label maker. I hum it to jog her memory.
“New hair?” I ask.
She smiles — same hair, different smile.
“It’s been this way,” she says, pleasant but practiced. “How can I help today?”
“We had that label maker bit,” I say.
She laughs, clean and wrong. “We appreciate your feedback,” she says, feeding the quarters into the safe.
By eight, the store feels hollow. Families trickle out with carts of groceries and fatigue. The intercom hums. Beep, bag, smile. The music switches mid-song to something wordless and warm — like ocean waves recorded in an office.
In the convex mirror above Aisle 9, my reflection looks slightly younger. My freckle is on the wrong side. I rub it; it stays.
Miguel, the evening team lead, passes by wearing a black polo shirt. He usually never wears anything but red.
“You’re doing important work,” he says in that guest-survey cadence.
“What?”
“Keeping guests happy. We appreciate your dedication.”
His smile snaps shut like a lid.
At 9:00 p.m., the breakroom smells of burnt popcorn. A poster reads: WE’RE NOT JUST A TEAM. WE’RE A FAMILY.
Below it, tiny print: Family members pick up extra shifts.
The fish in the tank are smaller than yesterday. Maybe replaced. Maybe I’m tired.
Hannah sits across from me. Her name tag gleams new; mine’s clouded with fingerprints.
“You’re back on register after break,” she says. “Then zoning softlines.”
“We call it softlines now?”
“It’s in the handbook.”
When I ask about her cat — the old calico that sneezes like a person — she blinks.
“I don’t have a cat,” she says. Then, softer, “Oh! Muffin. She’s fine.” The voice is bright, empty of texture, like a voicemail.
In the bathroom, I wash my hands too long. My reflection blinks late. My freckles trade places.
I scroll old selfies — different eyes, messier hair, a crooked tooth I can’t find anymore.
The me in the mirror looks edited.
By closing, Miguel’s polo is now a dustier shade of black. The playlist loops the same song twice.
When I joke about déjà vu, Hannah just says, “That’s above my pay grade,” like she’s proud of it.
Two nights later, more of them have changed — new smiles, new voices, same names.
I test people: mention shared jokes, little moments. They blink and reset.
At 10:00 p.m., I tell the empty aisle, “Do you ever feel like we’re just copies?”
The endcap towels say SALE $9.99, polite as ever.
By midnight, the mirrors show me in threes. I hold my breath; all three keep breathing. Most nights it would be time to head home. The week before Christmas makes it worse. I’ll be here til three in the morning. The store is on a 24-hour schedule this week for last minute holiday shopping. Another shift is starting but they overlap with mine.
The Team Wall photos all look too fresh, edges curling up from the tape. Hannah’s mouth no longer wrinkles on one side. Mine looks newer, steadier, less tired.
At 12:04 a.m., the intercom crackles:
“Attention team members: replacements will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to your stations.”
Miguel stands at the doors, eyes glassy as display cases. He doesn’t move. Neither does Hannah. The air holds its breath.
The doors slide open, and in walk us.
A second Miguel, polo red. Another Hannah, name tag pristine.
And one more me — uniform crisp, eyes awake, posture confident like a stock photo of competence.
They stop in front of us. My double says, “You can go home now.”
“I still have three hours,” I say, because that’s the only truth that feels solid.
“You can go home now,” it repeats, tone flawless.
Behind them, the others stand smiling in formation, hands folded neatly, waiting for permission to start.
“What happens if I stay?” I ask.
The other me tilts their head. “That’s above my pay grade.”
The intercom clicks off like a throat clearing. The store hums again.
I step backward into the stockroom — towers of boxes, the smell of rubber and paper. The emergency exit glows red. The sign says ALARM WILL SOUND. I push it.
It doesn’t.
Outside, snow floats down under the parking lot lights. The world looks printed, flat as a postcard. I unlock my car, sit with my hands on the wheel. The rearview mirror holds my face steady. I wait for the lag. None comes.
Through the front glass, I can see my replacement already scanning, smiling, efficient.
The rhythm carries through the dark:
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I could drive home. I could quit. I could wake up early, go for a run, call my mother.
Or I could stay in the car and listen.
The scanner keeps time, steady as a drum. Beep. Beep.
The snow quiets everything else. I close my eyes and try to remember which version of me still works here, which one already went home.
I can’t tell.
So, I wait.
The rhythm doesn’t stop.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Category: Competition, Featured, Short Story, SNHU Student