When Edward Longfellow turned sixty-six, he determined that four decades of slaving away in a dead-end job was more than he could take. The next day, he presented the relevant papers to the Pension Service and the eligibility letter he had received a few months back. On March 31, at 5 p.m., he slipped away quietly, just like he had done for the past forty-three years, missed by none of his Minerva Accounting colleagues. There were no formal goodbyes, no farewell party with a Salted Caramel McDreamy cake, and no signed card from Cards Galore. Because Ed Longfellow had always been a man with an unremarkable face and an unmemorable character, which people tended to forget the moment his back was turned. He was condemned to oblivion when he picked up the cardboard box with his meagre belongings and stepped out of the building. He walked to the train station for…