I used to work at a place that was home to the master control rooms for over 40 cable networks, big and small. It was a large, brutalist-lite brick building abutted by a massive satellite farm, the great white dishes rising from a gravel field like mutated robot mushrooms. I often worked night shift. One night, around 3 AM, I had some time to kill, as the master control for which I was responsible was airing a 30 minute infomercial. I wandered toward the industrial Keurig machine in the lobby, then stopped. Someone had removed all the mints from the big bowl of hard candy beside the receptionist's desk--empty after 6 PM every day--and methodically lined them around the perimeter of the reception area, approximately 3 inches apart. I wasn't sure why, but the obsessive precision of those round red and white candies lining that countertop rattled me. I froze and scanned every corner of the stone-tiled lobby. My eyes swept the large zen garden on the other side of the interior koi pond. I expected savage eyes glittering there among the manicured plants and tasteful trees. I was alone in that huge lobby with the sound of the water and the lurking memory of the strange mind who'd carefully ordered those candies. Shuddering, I retreated to the break room, the bad coffee there, the eternally preserved pastries in the vending machines. Later, a woman who worked in another control room was taken away ranting in an ambulance, and I assumed the mints had been her handiwork. But every now and then I wondered if she'd just seen them too, and at 4 AM one fine Friday morning finally found the methodically ordered mints and the wan programming on the screens everywhere in her dim control room just too much to truly bear.