Tears splatter the keyboard. “I dinnae get it…”, feeling hot shame, “I dinnae get it…” Eilidh next door inserts her head into his cubicle. “Oh hun, dinnae worry, I can do it for you.” His screen shows the following, simple task:

"Aye, see it’s just like this Doug”, her fingers deftly tapping out the correct letters. Malcolm, across the office aisle, glances over, unable to stop his eyes following his ears. Dougie cringes and stares at his shoes. No words are exchanged, but Dougie knows Malcolm and the lads are going to laugh at him over a pint late this evening. “There, all done pal… jesus Dougie, you need to get yerself checked.” Dougie flicks her a look “aye, cheers Eil”, cheeks still wet. The captcha loads and they are left in a tense silence. Ding, Complete, your order for haemorrhoid cream is processing. The others wander back to their work, tired of the local office idiot. Doug stares at the screen in despair. “I dinnae get it….”, whimpering, “I dinnae get it….”

Dougie has never completed a captcha correctly in his entire life. His mother knew something was wrong by his third birthday. “Go on dougie, go on, select all the squares with bicycles!” His father, over the paper, snorted, “gi’e it up hun, that bairn’s as thick as mince.” A nervous edge entered his mother’s voice, usually steely in the classroom. “You can do it Dougie”, a catch in her voice, “you’re my wee boy, gi’e it yer best shot, then you'll get a wee slice o' cake” The order for haemorrhoid cream is complete. “You can expect delivery in 2-3 days, to 31 Parkside Commercial District.” He’s fucked it, just like he fucks everything. Would you like to change your delivery address? He clicks ‘Yes.’ “Select the objects that can be used to store water.” Dougie closes his eyes and screams inside.

Captchas permeate this world. A week later, Dougie is grafting a lassie at the local pub. He is two pints down, five if you count hers. “Aye, pal, that’s fockin hilarious”, her hand drifting on to his thigh as she sprays him with Tenants. It looks like Dougie might be getting a wee bit o’ action tonight if he can just get the conversion right. There is only one problem. She is going to ask him to do a captcha. Beads of sweat roll down his face. Eilidh isn’t there to help him. The lassie necks the pint and burps loudly, jumping off the stool: “aye, back in a moment then let’s boost.”

Dougie is aroused, but not by her. It is an erection of fear. His hand is trembling; he feels like he is about to piss himself. The bar is almost empty; the barman, having seen Dougie in this position before, spits into the sink in disgust. He hears the voice of Malcolm at work “Are ya gonna cry?” “Fockin hell! Everyone lookie here, wee Dougie’s gonna cry again from the captcha hahahaha”, and Eilidh “och! it’s okay to cry silly bahby, maybe it’s time to pop off, ey?” The only other customer, a sloshed barscot sitting next to him slobbers on his collar, “hey pal, think you cood help a guy oot? Am too steaming to do this fockin' thing.” The sweaty phone slips into Dougie’s hand and he sees captcha. He almost vomits and drops the phone.

The lassie returns and rescues him from the barscot. “Aye, yer boyfriend is a fockin’ freak!” The barscot’s nostrils flare, but she defuses the situation, “Ahh kno, but he’s a keeper”, with a little wink. Outside, the air is cool and mildly salty from sea wind. The lassie is illuminated by a magnesium lamppost, her auburn hair coloured a warm orange. Her soft eyes turn to him, “Oh Dougie, yer so braw, I’ve only got one wee question for ya.” Anticipating what is about to happen, Dougie starts disassociating. He is no longer under the lamplight. He is above, floating like a fairground balloon. He watches as she takes out a printed out piece of paper with nine images showing miscellaneous buckets, hats, and banana peels. “Which one, Dougie, can be used to store water…” Which one… which one…

That night, Dougie had a beautiful dream. He is having dinner with his boss, Mr McGillvray. McGillvray is topless and wearing a fedora. “Aye, Dougie, I’ve brought you here because, see, you and I are the same.” He pulls out hundreds of sheets of paper with images of donkeys, motorcycles, trains, distorted words. He rips them up. He shits on them. He sets fire to them. Fuck captchas! Fuck captchas! Fuck captchas!

Dougie’s parents divorced when he turned eight. He had failed another captcha at school and they had sent back a safeguarding concern. The teachers thought Dougie’s maw and paw had beat him so badly he couldn’t identify motorcycles. "Sir and madam, it is a matter of the other childrens' safety." His dad sprayed cheap wine over the table: “You fockin cheated on me, dinnae deny it ya focking HARPY. That’s no son o’ mine. That’s no son o’ mine.” Dougie watched from the cracked door, the linoleum floor littered with printed captcha images. His mother, exhausted, stared listlessly at them. “Balloon, Fastidious, Failure, Disappointment.” Correct. Correct. Correct. Correct.

Dougie often dreams of running away to the wilderness where captchas don’t exist. Every time he tries to leave his city, however, he is met by the nine-panelled brick wall. A captcha barring his plane tickets. Captchas on the door to the boat rental place. Captchas proffered when he tries to buy a car. Captchas for donating sperm. Captchas for the datin’ apps. Captchas for adoption. All of them with the same look of pity and disgust. He often wonders who this world is for. He cannae understand. He cannae understand.

One afternoon, deep into the Scottish summer, Dougie snaps. He steps out of his house and walks, and walks, and walks, into the evening, into the night. The beach is, of course, deserted. There are no captchas here. Only the gentle slosh of pebbles being slowly ground into sand. He sits, alone, feeling the sun on his face and the breeze under his arms. Huge clouds drift effortlessly above the sea, vast towering mountains, castles, and kingdoms. For a brief moment, Dougie sees himself as a tiny speck, and all his earthly problems are blasted into insignificance. Birds fly in formation far overhead.

Dougie rolls his trousers up and wades shin-deep amongst the waves. The sun has made the yellow sand a brilliant white. Behind him the land has become hazy, sand-dunes and samphire stretching into the horizon in both directions. His heart feels light. In the distance, in the wake, he sees a crowd of people running towards him, waving, laughing, cheering. He starts to run towards them. Time seems to slow down. They are the people who cannot do captchas. They are his people.