S22 Ep2: NoSleep Podcast S22E02

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it, so your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary, not available in all states or situations.

They're calling.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable.

Audio messages from the shadows.

But one message is clear.

And it says:

brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast.

You're doing a good job.

You're doing a good job.

You're doing a good job.

You're doing a good job.

Season 22 is rolling on, and so is December.

As the holidays and the new year approach, it's easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle of this busy month.

We're glad to be along for the ride.

The ride into the dark, wintry night.

We hope our horror stories provide a nice backdrop to all the other festivities of the season.

And on a personal note, I want to express my sincere thanks to the many people who reached out over the past couple of weeks while I was dealing with some health issues.

I was very touched by your warm, caring comments.

It's nice to have the ailments go away while your kind words linger.

So thanks for bringing some light and love into what was a rather unpleasant week.

And how appropriate that this week's episode deals with people who are facing problems in their life.

We all have to learn to overcome the struggles we face, but sometimes when we're dealing with a problem, the things we choose to do in response to those problems lead only to more problems, usually much more serious ones.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible.

Financial geniuses.

Monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it, so your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary, not available in all states or situations.

What does Zin really give you?

Not just hands-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom.

Freedom to do more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

When is the right time for Zen?

It's any time you need to be ready for every chance that's coming your way.

Smoke-free, hassle-free, on your terms.

Why bring Zen along for the ride?

Because America's number one nicotine pouch opens up something just as exciting as the road ahead.

It opens up the endless possibilities of now.

From the way you spend your day to the people you choose to spend it with.

From the to-do list right in front of you to the distant goal only you can see.

With Zin, you don't just find freedom.

You keep finding it again and again.

Find your Zen.

Learn more at Zinn.com.

Warning, this product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

Now, do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet Lynn.

She's in a situation many of us can relate to.

Not a lot of cheese in the old bank account.

Imagine her surprise when a mystery deposit shows up.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Blair Daniels, She soon realizes the money doesn't belong to her, and the big question now is, should she keep it or not?

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis and Kyle Akers.

So keep track of your dollars and cents.

You don't want to get caught off guard by unknown bank deposits.

The first deposit came on a Tuesday.

I was on my way to lunch when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

Hmm.

Woohoo!

You just got paid.

My budgeting app gleefully told me.

That's odd, I thought.

Payday wasn't until Friday.

I opened the app to find a deposit of $250.

It was from a sender I didn't recognize.

It was A-W-S-T-G-H-Y-2276.

I quickly shot off a text message to my husband, because it was our joint account, but he didn't recognize it either.

My next thought was PayPal.

I did occasionally get weird payments.

I have a crafting side hustle that's more of a side crawl, but those payments usually say PayPal in the transaction.

So who was just giving me money?

Must be a scam.

But as the hours went by, I didn't get any weird texts or phone calls.

That fat $250 just sat there in my bank account, taking up space.

I told my husband about it when I got home.

We should give it back.

I don't think we can do that.

Sure we can.

We can call the bank.

Tell them to reverse the transaction.

I shot him a look.

Or we could just keep it.

Someone did give it to us.

That's unethical.

What's unethical is forcing the kids to eat rice and beans for lunch every day.

Slammed the refrigerator shut and plopped down on the couch.

Look, I feel a little weird about it too, okay?

But it's not like I picked up a wallet someone dropped and found $250 in it.

Someone actually gave this to us, whether it was accidental or not.

We argued about it until we went to sleep.

Well, not really argued, more just aggressively talked at each other.

With three kids and two full-time jobs, neither of us had the energy to properly argue anymore.

When I woke up the next morning, there was a text from an unknown number waiting for me.

At 2:13 p.m.

today, go to the corner of 12th Avenue and North Street.

Take a photo of the short man in the black coat.

What the heck?

But Jerry had already left for work.

I'd tell him about it later, the weird text from a wrong number.

As I got the kids ready for school, I couldn't stop smiling.

Tomorrow, you guys are gonna get a special lunch, not rice and beans, something really good, I told them as we walked down the driveway.

After waving to them on the bus, I left for work.

But then another text came in as I was riding the elevator up.

If you want to keep the $250, take the photo.

My throat went dry.

It wasn't free money.

Some...

some weirdo wired $250 to me.

The elevator door slid open and I stumbled out.

How do they have my number?

Is it someone I know?

I glanced around at the hall of cubicles, at the people I'd worked side by side with for five years.

Ed, Ed is weird enough to pull some shit like this.

But then then I frowned.

If Ed were wiring me $250,

he'd be asking for a photo of...

something else.

I set my phone face down on the desk and got to work.

I didn't spend another thought on the text.

I pretended it didn't even happen.

I just focused on my happy little spreadsheets.

on the upcoming presentation and hoped it would all go away by five.

It didn't.

At two o'clock sharp, my phone buzzed loudly.

And when I pulled up the text, my breath caught in my throat.

Why haven't you left yet?

I glanced wildly around the office, but nobody was looking at me.

I ran over to the window.

The sidewalk below was filled with people, but none of them were looking up in my direction.

Fear pounded through my veins.

You want to give your kids that special lunch tomorrow, don't you?

I froze.

No.

They'd been in my yard, watching me.

And now they were somewhere on the street or in this very office watching my every move.

I shot up from the desk and I ran to the elevator.

It took me eight minutes to get to the corner of 12th and North, running, in heels.

Panting, I glanced around at my surroundings, but I didn't see anything at the place.

A woman jogging by, a mother pushing a stroller, two businessmen arguing as they crossed the street.

And at 2.13, a short man in a black coat strolled into view.

He pressed the button for the crosswalk.

Quickly, I whipped out my phone, pretended I was texting, and snapped a photo of him.

I rushed back to the office building, tears stinging my eyes as my fingers slid across the screen.

Here's your photo, I texted with the image.

Now leave me the fuck alone.

After work, I went to the grocery store.

I got my kids organic sliced turkey, an aged gouda, and fucking gourmet Swiss chocolate for lunch tomorrow.

I played their stupid little sick game.

Damn it if I wasn't going to reap the the rewards.

As the goods approached the conveyor belt, my phone vibrated.

Woohoo!

You just got paid!

My heart fell into my stomach,

and it fell through the floor when I saw the amount.

$1,000.

Whatever they were going to ask me to do tomorrow, I had a feeling it was going to be a lot worse than taking a photo of some random guy.

Threw my groceries into the trunk of the car, the whole world going blurry with my tears.

Just ignore it.

Whatever they ask you to do tomorrow, just don't respond.

They'll take the money back, and that'll be it.

And then you can go to the police and tell them everything.

I was naive to assume they'd wait until tomorrow because as I started the car, my phone buzzed again.

Drive to the pier.

I stared at those four words, my heart pounding in my chest.

And then I leapt into action.

I don't want to play your sick fucking game, I texted, my hands shaking.

Take your money back.

I don't want it.

Leave me alone.

It's too late for that.

I swallowed.

What do you mean?

It's too late, I wrote back.

Three dots popped up, showing they were typing.

And then the message appeared.

Because the cargo is already in your back seat.

My heart pounded in my ears.

You really shouldn't leave your car unlocked, Lynn.

I closed out of the texting app, pulled up the phone, and began dialing 911.

Something thumped against the back of my seat.

Every muscle in my body froze.

I held my breath.

The shadows in the rearview mirror shifted, but I couldn't quite make out.

Drive to the pier and you'll be safe.

But if you call the police...

He didn't need to finish that sentence.

I swung out of the parking lot and drove as fast as I could to the pier.

When I got there, I parked in a dark little corner and cut the lights.

Now in the darkness, in the silence, I could hear them breathing.

A steady rush of air right behind my ear.

Close your eyes.

I squeezed them shut tight.

Rustling movement in the back seat.

And then the open and close of a car door.

Faint footsteps on the pavement, receding into the darkness.

I let out the breath I'd been holding.

I don't know how long I'd been sitting there with my eyes closed, but I finally felt like it was safe to open them when I hadn't heard the footsteps in a long time.

I sobbed as I drove home, so thankful I was alive, praying that this whole nightmare was over.

That whoever this person was, they'd used me as much as they could and would move on to the next poor soul.

I wasn't so lucky

because this morning when I woke up, I had a new notification:

Woohoo!

You just got paid.

The amount?

$10,000.

I called in sick to work.

All I could do was sit there staring at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest.

I couldn't eat, couldn't focus, couldn't move, because I knew sooner or later I'd get the instructions.

It was almost noon when my phone pinged.

Hands shaking, I picked it up and stared at the message.

Deliver the package to 12 Maple Avenue.

Package?

What package?

The doorbell rang, followed by a dull thump on the porch.

No.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

The kitchen swam beneath me.

Slowly, I forced myself up.

Then I walked to the door and swung it open.

At my feet, there was a brown box.

It It wasn't that small, about a foot on the side.

Heart pounding in my chest, I reached down and picked it up.

It was heavier than I expected, but not exceedingly so.

Taking deep breaths, I started back inside.

I stopped.

There was a pool of dark liquid where the box had just been.

I lifted the box up and saw in the center, the cardboard was wet,

soggy stained dark red

I dropped the box and screamed

it made a wet swack on my front porch I leapt inside and slammed the door

my phone on the kitchen table the screen lit up with a message slowly walked towards it the pain building in my chest

deliver the package lynn

I texted back, my fingers flying over the screen.

Fuck off, you're sick.

I'm calling the police.

The reply came back almost instantly.

You'll be dead before you get the chance.

I whipped around, and then I saw it.

On the other side of the street, a black sedan with dark windows idled by the curb.

My throat went dry.

If they were holding a gun, they'd have have a straight shot at my head.

I ran into the living room and ducked behind the couch.

No one could possibly see me through any windows.

Hands shaking.

I raised my thumb over the dial button.

We have a second car at JCP Elementary.

It's recess.

All I have to do is give the word.

My throat went dry.

All the air was sucked out of my lungs.

I couldn't breathe.

Please, I typed back.

Please just leave us alone.

The reply popped up.

I will, if you deliver the package.

This is your final task.

I got up, slowly walked into the kitchen.

Through the window, I could see the brown box, skew on the steps.

The wet, darkened stain.

And please don't drop it again.

It's fragile.

Shaking, I made my way back to the door.

I picked up the box.

Something thunked against the side as I rotated it in my hands.

I swallowed and tried not to imagine what was inside.

I stiffly walked to the car,

put the box into the passenger seat.

Then I got in the driver's seat and stared out the windshield.

I can't do this.

But when I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw the black car idling at the curb, watching me.

As I drove, I couldn't stop glancing at the box.

At the dark red seeping into the gray cloth of the passenger seat.

Deep down, I think I knew what was in the box.

But that didn't stop me from pulling over to the side of the road just outside of town and taking a peek.

My hands shook as I pulled off the tape.

As soon as the seal was broken, a horrible smell filled the car.

Gasping, I grabbed the flap and quickly pulled it up

and immediately vomited.

It was

a head.

The head of an adult man.

I grabbed the flaps and pushed them shut.

Grabbed the tape off the floor and quickly sealed the box again.

Rolled the windows down to get rid of the smell.

Gasped in gulps of fresh air.

Because in the quick flash, I'd seen the face looked familiar.

It looked like the man I'd taken a photo of in the black coat.

I hit the gas and sped through town until I was turning into Oak Grove, the community of McMansions built several years back.

I passed brick archways, white columns, sprawling lawns of green.

I frantically looked for the number 12, and then I found it.

The house was grand, sitting on top of a hill.

White columns stretched up to the sky, and a large window reflected the clear blue sky.

I pulled up to the curb and grabbed the box.

Then I burst out and ran up to the front door.

I could hear the thump, thump, thump of the head rattling inside with each step.

A wave of nausea hit me, but I forced myself to concentrate on my steps.

Almost there.

Almost.

As soon as my feet hit the porch, I dropped the box and got the hell out.

When I was halfway down the hill, I heard the door creak open behind me.

Then a pause, and then a woman's scream.

I kept running, dove into the car, hit the gas, and peeled down the road.

When I was finally back in my house, every door locked and sealed, I sent off a final text.

I delivered the box.

Our transactions are over.

Never contact me again.

I stared at the screen, my eyes watering.

And then three little dots popped up.

You weren't supposed to open the box, Lynn.

The phone slipped out of my hands and then I began to sob.

My entire body shook as I imagined what horrible things this person would ask me to do next.

Knowing that I was powerless, that they knew where I lived, where my kids went to school.

But it's been a month now.

And I haven't heard anything.

I've been watching the news closely.

I learned the man who died was a local businessman.

A corrupt one who'd embezzled quite a bit of money.

He had so many enemies the police didn't even know where to start.

They never traced anything back to me, or presumably the person who'd been texting me.

Then last night happened.

There'd been a break in the case, according to the news broadcast.

A break that police were confident would lead them to the killer and any accomplices.

They found the murder weapon buried in some muck in the water next to the pier.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it, so your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary, not available in all states or situations.

What does Zin really give you?

Not just hands-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom.

Freedom to do more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

When is the right time for Zen?

It's any time you need to be ready for every chance that's coming your way.

Smoke-free, hassle-free, on your terms.

Why bring Zen along for the ride?

Because America's number one nicotine pouch opens up something just as exciting as the road ahead.

It opens up the endless possibilities of now.

From the way you spend your day to the people you choose to spend it with.

From the to-do list right in front of you to the distant goal only you can see.

With Zen, you don't just find freedom, you keep finding it again and again.

Find your Zen.

Learn more at Zen.com.

Warning.

This product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

Not many of us can actually relate to the nightmares of ghosts and demons.

But when it comes to real-world nightmares, far too many people can relate to the horror of being in a horrific car accident.

Even worse, not everyone in your car survived it.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Adrienne de Leon, a couple have been in a violent wreck with their baby.

The couple survived, and it appears so did their child.

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Lindsay Russo.

So take care on the roads around Santa Cruz, especially if you're on the 17.

When I woke, one of us was crying, but I don't remember which.

Lying next to each other in bed, One would flinch whenever the other got close.

One room over, there's an infant crying, and one of us gets up without saying a word to lull the child back to sleep.

We haven't spoken in some months.

Since shortly after we visited the in-laws, really.

An old house on the outskirts of Santa Cruz.

We took Highway 17.

Sharp, hard turns.

The traffic never seems to want to slow down unless there's an accident.

It feels as if you're either gliding downhill with the wind on your back or trudging an incline in the rain.

One of us was driving, and the other was dozing off in the passenger seat.

We were driving out to introduce our newborn to the in-laws.

You've never seen a more gorgeous child than our baby Rosie.

I was never even particularly fond of babies.

Always liked children, but babies were just loud, sticky things.

Not Rosie.

She made eye contact with you and really smiled at you.

And I know they all say they don't socially smile until later.

But Rosie really looked right at you and reminded you what the sun feels like.

One of us had always told the other,

Don't take the 17, Mark.

I hate the 17.

Just go around.

And the other had said,

It's late, and I don't want to be driving all night.

You'll feel better if we get there quicker.

One of us returns from the other room.

The baby isn't crying anymore.

Neither of us go back to sleep.

The morning sun has that hazy blue dawn light, and it's beaming in through the window by our beds.

Birds are singing.

It's beautiful out.

Neither of us say anything to each other.

Not anymore.

That night when we were driving, one of us had said to the other,

Careful, careful, careful.

Honey, we're going to be a statistic if you keep driving like this.

Slow down, you're speeding.

The other said,

I'm only going 60.

The speed limit is 50.

We're in California.

If you're not going 15 over the speed limit, then you're slowing down the rest of traffic.

Babe, look at all these cars passing us.

I don't give a shit what the other cars are doing.

If the speed limit is 50, then just drive 50.

Evie, do you want to get there or not?

Because I read that slow drivers cause accidents more often than fast drivers.

You are so making that up.

There really was no better relief than when we finally pulled into the driveway.

They'd always always wanted to be grandparents, and for years we didn't think having children would be possible.

It made Rosie's smile seem even brighter.

We finally got pregnant after we had just given up as well.

It was funny how it worked that way.

Without knowing it, Rosie was the shining beacon of years of sitting by the sink staring at a pregnancy test, dozens of doctors' visits.

Months of us feeling like there was something wrong with us, and like we could never be truly whole.

It wasn't until 11 at night that we finally left Santa Cruz that day.

A couple months later, guilt had gnawed its way and burrowed through a painful hole in the chest.

We were sitting in that same hazy blue light of an early morning, laughing, squeezing past in our small kitchen.

Our hands grazed each other's skin at every opportunity.

At the time, we had just returned home from Rosie's pediatrician.

A clean bill of health for a smiling baby.

Until the doctor turned to us both and said, Rosie is much smaller than we'd like for her age.

The doctor assured us that babies grow at different rates, but it's something to look out for.

There didn't seem to be anything wrong internally after the accident, but they told us to watch her eating and to make sure she stays warm.

Later, we were home and the baby was sleeping.

One of us looked up and smiled.

I'm so happy.

It's such a miracle Rosie wasn't hurt in that accident.

The other stopped moving.

The hands we were holding were let go.

Evie,

I have to tell you something.

That's not our Rosie.

What do you mean, that's not our Rosie?

I mean...

Rosie isn't in our crib right now.

Well,

that's Rosie now, but it isn't Our Rosie.

I don't remember which one of us was driving when we went home.

It was late, and sometimes when you're driving late at night, you can feel yourself losing focus.

It's like your vision blurs the road.

Things get out of center and far away, and then your vision gets jolted back to normal by the harsh purring from the shoulder of the highway.

One of us had drifted to the fast lane slightly.

The car in that lane had swerved and bumped the center divider.

The blaring horn had woken everyone in the car up.

The car swerved back into their lane, and one of us over-corrected, and the car had completely lost control.

It spun a couple times.

Our car was completely turned when the car behind us rammed into the passenger side door.

There was a long moment of shock after the car had finally stopped skidding on the road.

It was maybe only 30 seconds, but 30 seconds can be forever sometimes.

When you don't hear crying.

And you think to yourself, there should be crying.

Why isn't there crying?

One of us was unconscious in the passenger seat with blood coming from somewhere on their head.

There was too much blood to tell where from.

And Rosie, her head wasn't perked up, looking curiously at her surroundings.

It was slack.

When the one who was still conscious got out of the car, the first thought was to scream and ask for help.

It's our daughter.

She isn't crying.

Please.

Then one of us called 911, screaming into the phone, and a heavy weight bounded the knees to the pavement.

The operator assured that help was almost there.

It was not.

After a while, one of us stopped screaming.

But I don't remember which.

The other driver had broken through their windshield.

The skin tone on their face was unrecognizable under all the blood, and their eyes looked like blisters covered with tiny shards of glass.

You can't really explain what your body does when you're in that kind of shock.

That trauma.

Your body becomes a foreign object.

Your hands become foreign tools.

And when those tools pick up a dead woman's live and healthy baby as your own, you don't recognize yourself anymore.

One of us picked up the baby from the other car.

The other was still passed out in the passenger seat.

The other infant was delicately placed in the back seat, wailing and screaming and kicking.

Rosie was ever so silent and well-behaved.

She put up no fuss when her small body, growing more and more rigid, was placed in the other car's car seat.

The other infant was buckled into the car seat in our car.

When When the ambulances arrived, one of us was surrounded by men saying, Sir, we'll take over from here.

And, ma'am, are you okay?

Ma'am, you've been in an accident.

Do you know where you are?

To the other.

When the one telling the story had finished, hands shaking and a burning sensation under the eyelids threatening a wave of tears, the one listening stared.

Horrified.

That's not funny, Mark.

But the one who told let the story linger a while longer.

Stop, seriously.

That isn't funny.

And then it got worse.

Mark, what the fuck is wrong with you?

What the fuck is the fucking Mark?

Stop.

Mark, say you didn't do that.

Mark, I'm fucking serious right now.

I'm not playing this game with you.

We were having a good day, and I'm not joking around.

Just tell me that isn't what happened.

Mark, what the fuck?

Hours of incomprehensible screaming and shaking the one who told by their shoulders.

Spit flying out from their mouth, a raw and burning throat, and then a wailing sob that lasted the night until the morning sun reminded us both of a world that was continuing to exist, while ours stopped.

The one who told, thinking,

I didn't have to tell.

Why did I tell?

I could have kept this up.

And now look at her.

Look at the pain I've brought her.

But I had to tell her.

And she'll learn to love the baby.

Hell, she's already been loving that baby.

One of us had no idea that what was worst of it all was that the other had been loving the infant.

And hadn't even noticed a difference.

Shouldn't a mother know when it isn't her baby?

What was wrong with her?

Doesn't a mother always know?

Months of dressing and changing diapers and having joyful, engulfing laughter with a baby so full of life?

And it wasn't our baby.

What kind of a mother can't tell the difference between her own and another?

Ever since being told, the infant had been put to bed on its stomach.

One of us had read that doctors think Sid's was less likely if the baby slept on its back.

One of us having prayed for an accident.

The other had no idea, thinking dreamily that the other would get used to it.

The silence between us wasn't broken from that day until this morning, when one of us, shaking and crying, had finally said,

Where is she?

Didn't you just go check on her?

No, I mean Rosie.

Oh.

Do you even know?

Yeah.

She was buried with the mother.

A pain.

So sharp and piercing, had found the heart.

And it rotted.

The one who heard swore they could smell their own heart festering inside their own chest.

Swear they could feel the maggots wriggling and feeding on the death and the bleeding.

In a strange way, that pain and the parasites feeding on the heart.

One of us felt it was the closest thing they had to Rosie.

The pain that her absence left.

One of us got up without saying a word and decided decided to shower.

The other waited for the sound of the water spraying from the bed and then decided to go to the kitchen and get a knife.

The knife bounced reflections from the early morning light above the infant for a long time, thinking.

The infant smiles and waves its hand, staring at the light on the ceiling.

The infant doesn't know that someone else is sleeping peacefully with its mother.

It didn't ask for this.

No child child ever really asks for anything, one of us thinks.

Every child in the world is unknowingly born into a trauma they will have no control over.

When one of us gets out of the bathroom, the other plunges the knife into their stomach.

Blood mixes with the water on their abdomen, following trails down their legs and pooling on the carpet.

Then they fall into their own pool of blood without having a word to say about it.

No arguments, just acceptance.

It's comforting that way to the other, that even if it wasn't expected, maybe it wasn't surprising.

And if it wasn't surprising, that must mean it was warranted.

They leave the baby in the crib, smiling and laughing, full of life and potential.

When the sun has finally risen over the horizon, and light fills the house no differently than it has every single other day.

The morning traffic begins outside, and the world keeps on living.

One of us is dying, and the other is leaving.

But I don't remember which.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more plus you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it so your dollar goes a long way visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance progressive casualty insurance company and affiliates potential savings will vary not available in all states or situations

what does Zinn really give you not just hands-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom.

Freedom to do more more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

When is the right time for Zin?

It's any time you need to be ready for every chance that's coming your way.

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You know, as an actor, I can relate to the thrill and challenge of auditioning.

And if you're trying to get cast in a new play with lots of improv, well, that can add to the thrill.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Osborne, we meet Jenny.

Her audition will push her in ways that make things feel more like fact than fiction.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas and Mike Delgadio.

So learn your lines, but if you really want to inhabit your character, you'll want to learn all about improvisation.

Hi, I'm...

uh

here for the audition.

Hi, how buzz you in?

Sweet 103.

I'm afraid our Wi-Fi's out, but we've got the actual paper and some ink magazines to enjoy while you wait, and I'll be with you in just a minute.

Okay, uh, yeah, thanks.

101,

102,

103.

Mr.

Arbus

Hi, I'm

hello

pretty disheartening, isn't it?

Excuse me,

Vogue.

We keep it around to remind ourselves how oh curant we are.

But I always get very depressed when I flip through it.

So much surface, so little reality.

And all the damn ads.

Yeah.

I sometimes wonder who they're for.

I mean, there are products, but you can't just buy what they're selling, if you know what I mean.

So you're Jenny, right?

Yes, hi, and you're Mr.

Arbus?

Oh, no, no, no.

I'm Jack Cage.

Mr.

Arbus isn't here right now.

I'll be conducting the audition for him.

How are you at Cold Readings?

Well, I try.

Good enough.

Okay, so today you'll be reading the part of Jenny.

Jenny?

Hey,

sounds like I'm made for the part.

Sure.

That's a good sign.

Uh, is there anything I should know about her or

no, no, just start right at the top of the first page, and I'll read the other lines.

Okay.

So, um...

Hello?

And, uh, should I follow the stage directions or?

Yeah, just uh go ahead and pick up the magazine.

Uh good.

Okay, and uh thumb through it.

Right.

It's pretty disheartening, isn't it?

Ex

excuse me?

Vogue.

We keep it around to remind ourselves how oh curant we are, but I always get very depressed when I flip through it.

So much surface, so little

reality.

And all the damn ads.

I sometimes wonder who they're for.

I mean,

there are products.

But you can't just.

I'm sorry, but uh.

What's going on?

You have done cold readings before, haven't you?

Yeah, of course, but that's not.

Is there a problem?

Oh, come on.

You're going to pretend I shouldn't find something strange about reading a script featuring me and the man who's supposed to be auditioning me?

Is this some weird theater game?

I don't mind that kind of thing, you know.

I've played gelatin before, raspberry, but I don't like head games.

Now tell me, are you Mr.

Arbus?

No, I told you, I'm Jack Cage.

I'm the writer.

And believe it or not, you're holding the actual script for the actual production you're auditioning for.

And the two characters are

named Jenny and Mr.

Arbis.

Yes.

Well,

you don't expect me to think that's a wild coincidence, do you?

I'm a writer, which by definition means I generally need money.

I have an especially hard time because I don't write things that are

commercial, let's say.

Mr.

Arbis is this.

Well, I would say crazy, but he's rich, so that makes him eccentric.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah, so I joined up with him a few years ago because he thought he could use me, and

I needed a patron.

Well, the upshot is he recently commissioned me to write a play in which he's the main character.

The Jenny thing, it really is a coincidence, though.

Believe me.

Mr.

Arbus must have an incredible ego.

Beyond belief.

Would you continue, please, from where you were?

All right.

I'm sorry.

I.

Anyway,

I mean, there are products, but you can't just buy what they're selling, if you know what I mean.

I know exactly what you mean.

So you're Jenny, right?

Yes, hi.

Are you Mr.

Arbus?

Yes.

Please, though, call me Jack.

Okay,

I need work, but I'm not gonna put up with crap like this.

I'm sorry?

Oh, don't give me that, Jack.

Are you Schizo?

I mean, I'm very open-minded, but I will not put up with mind games.

So, what is your real name, Arbus or Cage?

My name is Jack Cage.

I Here, wait, here.

Here's my license.

See?

Jack Cage.

I wrote the production, and I'm assisting Mr.

Arbis.

Jack Arbis?

Yes, Jack Arbis.

It's a very common first name, like John, Steve, Mike, and Gustav.

The production we're doing will run eight weeks.

With a weekly paycheck of $2,000, it's a little avant-garde, yes.

So if you don't feel comfortable with that, I can call the girl I've got scheduled for six to come early and give myself an early evening.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm just.

I'm sorry.

Where should I take it from?

Are you?

Are you, Mr.

Arbus?

Yes, please, though.

Call me Jack.

Okay.

I have a good friend named Jack.

Oh, yeah?

Well, it's a fairly common name, like John or Steve or Mike.

Or Gustav.

Yeah, or Gustav.

Um,

do you want a drink?

I'd love one.

You wouldn't believe the time I had getting here.

The roads were all backed up.

I think it was a broken sewer main or something, because there was this unbelievable stench.

And oh, I shouldn't ramble on.

Do you have something you want me to read?

I have a monologue prepared.

Nah, I don't want to see you as anyone else yet.

Just be yourself for now.

That's the one I always have trouble with.

No,

just kidding.

Um,

it says here, I drink.

No, no,

see, I don't drink.

Well, then just pretend.

So, tell me about yourself.

Do you get away from the city much?

Uh.

My next line is blank.

Yeah, that's right.

At certain points in the script, I want you to improvise.

Just go with it.

So, do you get away from the city much?

Well, um,

I try not to.

I was born and raised in the suburbs, but once my father left, I moved into the city and I've been here ever since.

I can't sleep anymore unless there's sirens and honking and people shouting in 40 different languages and lights from skyscrapers everywhere.

That's weird, isn't it?

Not for a city girl.

So, um...

Why did your father leave?

If it's not too personal?

No, I don't mind talking about it.

It was more educational than traumatic.

He was a real hippie, you know?

I was brought up with all this incredible music in the house.

He'd play King Crimson and Jethro Tull, and...

He liked Jethro Tull a lot.

He could play the flute, and sometimes he'd get stoned and sit in the living room and turn off everything except the lava lamp.

And

yeah, we were lava lamp people.

But he'd sit there in the dark with his flute and jam along with Jethro Toll.

It was really nice.

I loved him a lot.

My friends liked him too, but mostly because he sold them hash and pot and stuff.

Anyway.

He couldn't handle living in the suburbs.

My mother is the best too, but But she's one of these really earthy people, you know?

Loved the family, pillar of the community, blah, blah, blah.

She was in the Methodist Church bell choir, for God's sake.

How did they meet?

I guess she was a little wilder back in the day, or she wanted to be, and he seemed like an adventure to her.

And dad would always say he married mom because he'd never had a really pretty girl be nice to him before.

I would have liked to have met him.

Oh, Oh, he's still around.

He writes to us all the time.

I mean, he really loved us.

He still does.

He's in a band now, which is great.

Last letter I got was from

Austin, I think.

But he moves around a lot.

Anyway, I don't blame him for leaving.

You could tell how unhappy he was, trapped in the suburbs, going to see bell choir competitions.

Did your mother understand?

Well, no, but,

well,

now she does.

But then,

like, she wanted to have her cake and eat it too, you know?

Like, a domesticated wild animal.

It just doesn't happen.

And,

well,

it got pretty hairy at the end.

Some nights were great, but then sometimes you just...

felt how tense everything was.

And he'd start snarling instead of talking, and they'd usually end up screaming at each other

I hated that

and I knew he hated it

and mom

so what finally happened

one night he hit her and knocked her down he didn't even hurt her or anything but that was it it was just too obvious He looked at us both and it was really quiet and then he just walked out the door.

A few days later, when mom and me were both out of the house, he picked up some of his stuff.

But now everything's cool.

She's seen him a few times since then, and she always comes back glowing.

It's like they were meant to be together, but not together, you know?

Yeah.

Yeah.

Um,

is there anything else you want to know?

No, no, that's perfect.

Okay,

we're gonna start in again at the top of page four.

Oh,

I think I'm missing a page here, Jack.

What's that?

The last line of my script is: you were right before.

There is no.

I think I'm missing a page.

Oh, sorry.

I've got another copy of my briefcase.

Hang on.

It's okay, just keep going.

Uh, Uh, right.

Okay.

Why do you want to know all that?

I like to get some feeling about the people I'm going to be working closely with.

Well, do I give off good feelings?

Yes, or else you wouldn't have gotten this far in the audition.

Oh,

really?

Uh, hold on, let's just pause here for a second while I find you a replacement page.

Hold on.

Oh, sure.

Uh, so, like,

am I the first person to actually, you know, stick around this long?

What?

Oh, no.

Uh, there are two or three others I was seriously considering, although,

and I don't want to throw you off, but you have a very good shot at this, because because the others were eliminated after this round of the audition.

And you seem much more right for the part than any of them did.

And what is the part, Mr.

Cage?

This whole thing is very

interesting, but I'm not really sure what you're looking for.

Yeah, don't worry, you're doing fine.

Yeah, you said that, and I'm glad, but I really would like a little more information about all this before we go on, if you don't mind.

Well, uh, Mr.

Arbus will be filling you in on that.

He should be here any minute.

I'm only doing this because he called and said he was running late.

Actually, he'll have the final say on who gets the part.

Will I be playing opposite Mr.

Arbus?

That's the plan.

And I'll pretty much be playing myself, right?

More or less, yeah.

And will this production take place in his bedroom, or is there a couch down here I haven't seen yet?

Excuse me?

I'm sorry, but I just figured out what's going on here.

You don't have a real script.

You won't tell me anything about the production.

You ask me about my personal life and give me booze.

Either you or Mr.

Arpis or both of you are pretty hard up.

So what?

Do you screen to find good-looking bimbos and then hand them over to Arbus?

Oh, Mr.

Arbus, will you really put me in your show?

What?

You want to see my legs?

Okay.

My fanny, too?

Well.

Okay.

What?

Do you get the leftovers?

Hey.

I'll admit it's clever, but I ain't no bimbo.

Jenny, listen.

Touch me and I'll turn you into a mezzo-soprano.

Have you eaten dinner yet?

You're kidding, right?

I'm sorry, it's just...

I'm starving.

I thought...

I really thought he'd be here by now.

I was going to go eat and let him take over, but if you don't mind.

Well, goodbye, Mr.

Cage.

It's been an experience.

Please, please, Jenny, sit down.

I owe you an apology, CC.

This is terrific.

Have you ever eaten at Yado's?

No.

It's great.

You want some?

No.

All right.

Okay, look,

you really do deserve an explanation.

Arbis and me sometimes forget in the middle of all of our experimental theater crap that we're working with real people.

Yes, I understand how it must seem to you.

But I gotta say, as the writer, I have to admit I'm pleased that all this has made you a little edgy.

I hope it has the same effect on audiences.

All this?

The script, the manner in which the audition has been conducted, it all goes along with this movement we're working on.

Reality theater, we call it.

We have the actors and the actresses seemingly play themselves.

So the audience is never sure what's spontaneous and what's planned.

But of course, it's all planned.

Of course, you don't have to go on with it if it makes you feel uncomfortable.

It does, actually.

But

well,

I guess I can walk out the door if you try anything.

And I'm just warning you now, I know Krav McGaw, so...

Look, seriously, you don't have to.

I mean, God, are you always this paranoid?

I just don't like getting ambushed.

Well, look, enough of this crap, okay?

This is a legitimate part.

I'm not trying to hustle you or get in your pants or whatever you think.

And if you can't handle that, then I think the audition is over.

Otherwise, could you please start from where you left off?

So what happens now, Mr.

Arbus?

It's your line.

I thought you had this thing memorized.

I am so sorry I snapped at you.

It's been a long week, and I really do think you're right for the part.

I'd hate to give you a bad impression.

No, that's okay.

I guess I was being

what?

Unprofessional?

But you just never know, you know?

A woman has to be careful.

I understand.

Anyway, oh, do you want one of these egg rolls?

No.

I also have some wontons in back.

No, no.

Well,

yeah.

Okay.

That sounds good.

So

should I start again?

Yes, please, and you're right.

I do have the whole thing memorized.

Yeah, start from so what happens now, Mr.

Arbus

now we have some wantons.

Do wantons

wait.

How did you

Okay,

sure.

So, uh...

Do wantons have meat in them?

I've been vegetarian for about a year now.

For moral or health reasons?

Health, I guess.

Good.

Because I noticed you were wearing a leather belt.

I hate moralistic vegetarians who wear leather belts.

I'm not wearing a belt.

What?

I know, but you know, that doesn't really matter for the audition.

Yeah,

but I bet you wish I was wearing a leather belt, right?

I think I'm getting the hang of this now.

I am a vegetarian, though.

Another wild guess, right?

Okay, take it from well, what's in it?

Well, what's these are meatless.

Thanks.

So, Jenny, you wanted to know more about the project?

Mm-hmm.

Well, it's a love story.

Hmm?

Yeah, um, of sorts.

Tell me, Jenny, who was your first love?

I mean, not just a boyfriend, but who's the first man you loved?

Ah.

It's blank again.

Improvise.

Yes, please.

I guess.

Well,

no.

It would have to be Nathan.

Nathan.

How old were you?

Oh, it was my junior year in high school.

He was older, and he really knew all the ways to sweep me off my feet.

He knew just what to say, what to do, and he had the most incredible butt.

Uh, but anyway,

so yeah.

Uh,

what else do you want to know?

You've been in love,

and I suppose you've been lonely.

Bottom of nine.

Yeah, of course.

Everybody has.

No, no, no, no.

I don't mean between lovers.

I'm talking about feeling like you don't belong on the planet lonely.

Like you might as well be from an extinct species.

Yeah,

I know the feeling.

And what do you do about it?

I have a few drinks.

I see a good movie.

Anything until the feeling goes away.

But

what about when it doesn't go away?

When it starts to ache?

I guess...

Well,

everybody, you know,

you just have faith that...

Well, things go in cycles, right?

You're lonely, but eventually, you know, in time, it passes.

You've just got to like yourself and hope.

I mean, everybody.

Everybody?

I'm not talking about everybody.

Maybe I should have been more specific.

I'm not talking about everybody.

I'm talking about me.

So don't give me that advice that everybody could take, okay?

You've just gotta like yourself.

You gotta have hard

God.

How frigging trite.

I expected a little more from you, Jenny.

You're really disappointing me here.

Hey.

Let me tell you a little about myself, Jenny.

Maybe that would help.

I'm probably the richest guy you know.

I started out with more than most people end with, and I kept going from there.

I've never failed, not with money, not with my career, not with women, certainly not with women.

You know, I was the second one in my graduating class at Milton Academy to French kiss.

And the first to go all the way.

I beat out the whole varsity football team.

I'm excellent at that game.

I'd get women even without being rich.

And that's the truth.

But it just

doesn't.

Do it, you know?

I wake up in the mornings and I say, I still don't have the first first idea what all the frigging songs and movies are about.

I still don't have the first idea what's filling up all those people who are everywhere, sighing and drooling at each other, saying, I love you.

I love you so much.

I couldn't live without you.

My whole life, I can't think of a single person who couldn't live without me.

So

I pretend it doesn't matter and keep

But I've gone as far as I can go.

So, then what do you do, huh?

I don't know.

Of course, you do.

You drink!

I drink

a a lot.

Wait, is this a method thing, or I mean, I don't think you should.

I howl at the moon.

I give myself little projects to keep myself busy, but it just

doesn't do it.

I just keep getting hollower and hollower.

It doesn't go away.

It's like I don't exist.

Like I'm a fucking ghost.

Oh my god, are you bleeding?

It wasn't a real bottle.

Keep going.

I'm fine.

No!

Oh my god!

You really slashed your hand.

You're bleeding everywhere.

Read the goddamn script!

No!

I can't take any more of this!

It's too strange.

I don't want the part.

I'm not who you're looking for.

I can't do it.

Well,

okay then.

Maybe you're right.

I was expecting a much more professional attitude from you after reading your resume, but no, I think you're right.

You should probably stick to conventional theater.

I'm sure you can find work in a road company of Oklahoma somewhere or other.

No!

Wait, I...

I'm sorry.

Where should I take it from?

Top of 13.

Oh my god, are you bleeding?

Oh my god, are you bleeding?

No, I'm fine.

That was stupid.

I'm sorry.

You're.

You're all right?

Couldn't be better.

Is

uh

is the audition over?

Or do you want me to come back later?

No, no, no, no, no, we're almost done.

I always make a fool of myself when I drink too much.

It's um

it's very unprofessional of me.

I'm sorry.

But are you?

I mean, what you said?

No, it uh wasn't an act.

I've never.

I've never in my life

been in love, and I.

I never will.

But why?

I've always been an observer.

An outsider.

I try to plan things and predict how they'll come out.

I'm very bad at improvisation.

I'm bad at anything spontaneous.

Anything I can't control.

And that's love, right?

It sneaks up on you.

Well,

nothing ever sneaks up on me.

So,

what does this have to do with me?

Don't worry.

I'm not looking for a prostitute.

It's an acting job.

That's all.

And?

And if you pass the audition, you'll enter into an eight-week run with a $2,000 paycheck at the end of each week.

You'll work from 9 to 4 and 7 to 9 each day.

Each night, you'll receive a script that will cover the hours we'll be together the following day.

There will be no sex scenes.

The worst you'll have to put up with are a few stage kisses.

Nothing you haven't run into in other shows.

Wait a minute.

Let me get this straight.

This audition is for the part of your girlfriend in a phony relationship with every line written by you.

I told you, it was avant-garde.

Look, our first scene will take place on a subway.

You'll be reading the movie listings in the paper, and I'll ask you for the time of the first show at a local art house.

We'll enter into a spirited discussion of the director's work.

It's a really charming scene.

In the next scene, we go to the movie and realize we've got a strong interest in one another, and so on and so on for eight weeks.

We fight, we make up.

And in the last scene, you leave for a great job in Europe because you can't give up your career to accept the marriage proposal I make to you.

But we part as friends and go on with our lives, and your contract expires.

So,

there you are.

What do you think?

I think

you're nuts.

That's all.

Nuts.

If you were describing me to friends, the only word you'd use would be nuts.

Well, that's depressing.

You want to know what's depressing?

You're depressing.

This is the most pathetic thing I've ever heard of.

I can't believe you're serious about this.

I am.

But

why?

What's the point?

What sort of satisfaction could you possibly get out of this?

I have my reasons for doing it.

What?

It's ridiculous.

You'd always know it was an enormous lie.

I don't see how either of us could keep a straight face through any of it.

I wouldn't have any problem, and I'm prepared to pay a fair amount of money to the actress who can take it seriously.

Make it seem.

real.

I don't know.

It's.

Look, do you remember the guy who surrounded those little islands in Florida with bright pink plastic and called it art?

I read something once about a man who paid thousands of dollars to own the idea for a work of art.

10,000 lines three inches long.

That was the idea.

Now, those guys were crazy.

I'm just eccentric.

Like I said, just think of it as avant-garde theater.

But what is it, really?

Oh,

I love this one.

I waltzed with Maria Schumacher to this song in seventh grade.

The first time I was ever that physically close to another person.

Would you

care to dance?

Is this more of the audition?

In a way?

Actually, I just feel like dancing.

Wait, is this a real or for the script?

Eh, both, I guess.

I mean, you don't have many lines during the dancing scene.

So, you could just

dance some,

you know,

if you wanted to.

Why don't we just take a break from the script altogether?

I'll dance, but I want to dance with you, not Mr.

Arbis.

It does all get a little confusing.

I need to take a reality break myself from time to time.

It's not so crazy as it seems, and

I hope you don't think I'm a lunatic.

Tell me, be straight with me, please.

I am auditioning for a play, right?

This

pre-written romance thing

That's not true, is it?

No, uh, no,

don't worry.

Look, it's it's almost over.

I'm pretty sure you've got the part if it's any consolation.

Just a few more pages.

But I'm

warning you, it does get a little stranger.

Oh.

Good.

Keep smiling.

And I really do hope you don't think I'm insane despite it all.

No.

You write some weird stuff, but you seem fairly normal.

Whatever that means.

Thanks.

That's always reassuring to hear.

Yeah.

This could be fun.

Oh, sure.

Well, we should finish up.

It's getting late.

All right.

I enjoyed the dance.

Me too.

Okay, middle of 20.

We've skipped over the dancing scene where you keep trying to figure out why Mr.

Arbis is doing it, blah, blah, blah.

Start with you don't think.

Yep.

You don't think all this is going to make me fall in love love with you, do you?

No,

not at all.

I'll admit it would be nice, but I've already told you I've given up on expecting to find love.

No, it's just uh

diversion.

I know I'll enjoy it, and well, frankly, you don't really have to.

So

that's

that's all of it.

What do you say?

Well, I'll need some time to think about it.

Totally understandable.

Oh, um,

there's um one more thing:

kiss me.

I beg your pardon.

It's the last part of the audition.

Uh, you've got the part so far, but I can't hire you if you can't deliver a convincing kiss, so so uh

kiss me.

Um

uh

um

topic 21.

So, um,

do you

um

wow, you nearly broke my freaking tooth.

Sorry,

You could have just said, let's skip the kissing scene.

Oh, you didn't have to headbutt me.

I'm sorry.

I really, I really am.

I'm sure you can kiss.

Yeah.

Um.

Oh, God.

Let's try again.

So, I

guess that means you're interested in taking the part?

Middle of 21, right?

Yes, well, I guess you could say I'm considering it.

Great.

Great.

Will we hear from you within the week?

Yes, definitely.

Well, Mr.

Arbus, it's certainly been an experience.

It certainly has.

Be seeing you.

Oh, Jenny.

Yes?

You were right before.

There is no.

Oh, sorry.

You said you were missing this page, right?

Yeah.

Okay, this is the home stretch.

Here,

take the page and just keep reading.

Oh, and wait, one more thing?

You were right before

there is no Mr.

Arbus.

Read.

A gun.

Oh, come on.

It's a prop.

Can't you tell when something's real or not?

But

where was I?

Oh, yeah.

You guessed it immediately.

There is no Mr.

Arbus,

except in my mind.

But I'm no schizo.

I consciously created him.

He's the fictional version of myself.

I can control him.

what he says.

And

everything I said here as him was true of the real me.

Do you get it?

Yes.

Please, stop shaking.

Don't give me those wild, terrified eyes.

Nothing is going to happen

to you.

I just wanted someone with me

before I died.

died.

What?

Everything I said was true.

I've never found

love.

I never will.

I know that.

I can't stand the loneliness anymore.

It's corny, I realize, but I have everything I've ever wanted.

And it's nothing with no one to share it with.

So,

that's it.

Thank you for being with me.

There's a check in the briefcase for $2,000 for your time.

And

you can explain my reasons to the police.

You're my living suicide note.

Goodbye, Jenny.

It was nice meeting you.

No!

Jack, what what do I say?

That's it.

The script ends there.

Right.

Improvise.

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brendan Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy and Ashley McInelly.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the Sleepless Sanctuary.

Add-free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is copyright 2024 and 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without without the written consent of Creative Raisin Media Inc.

You're juggling a lot.

Full-time job, side hustle, maybe a family.

And now you're thinking about grad school?

That's not crazy.

That's ambitious.

At American Public University, we respect the hustle and we're built for it.

Our flexible online master's programs are made for real life because big dreams deserve a real path.

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APU, built for the hustle.

Sucks!

The new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be hustle.

Winner, best score.

We demand to be seen.

Winner, best book.

We demand to be quality.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs.

Playing the Orpheum Theater October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

It seems everyone gets a tip these days.

Deliver food?

Get a tip.

Drive around town?

Get a tip.

Serve a drink?

Get a tip.

But here's one tip that can help you find a higher-paying career.

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It may be the last tip you ever need.

Learn more at meritamerica.org.