“So you can see my screen?” I confirmed.
“That’s how it works,” he muttered. “Occupational oversight.”
“Right. So what does the job actually involve?”
“Mostly keeping the temperatures steady, making sure nothing blows.” A beat. “They don’t let just anyone near the industrial estate.”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Better than the mines,” he said. “More physical, but steady. I only did it once, but the pay was decent.”
“And the risk?”
He hesitated, just a hitch in his breath. “No wildlife. Just machines and heat. Stay alert and you should survive.”
“And that’s definitely your top pick?” I asked, scrolling through the rest of the jobs.
“It’s the best on today’s list, from what I can see,” he said. “Cleaning gigs pay less, ocean mining’s always a crapshoot, and the water plant isn’t much better.”
“Factory 5,” I murmured, tapping to reserve it. “Start time is nine.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You’ll want to leave early. It’s a trek from your place. Aim for seven, maybe earlier. Or…” There was a hesitation, almost like he was debating himself. “If you’d rather not get lost, I could meet you en route. I’m working there too today.”
I glanced at the address. “You mean you’re working at Factory 5 too?”
“Yeah. Close enough to home, and I don’t feel like roaming the islands.”
“So… where should I find you?”
“My place,” he said, with the same unvarnished directness. “I’ll text the address.”
“Alright,” I replied, thrown by how casual—and yet final—it sounded.
He hung up without another word. A moment later, my phone buzzed with his address:3, Scorscy Road, Willoughby Isle.
Definitely not your standard issue employment officer,I thought, still staring at my phone screen. I couldn’t decide if that made things simpler… or just a whole lot stranger.
As I stepped out the door, my phone pinged with a message from Jessie:
“SCRAPER JOB ON DOCK 3!! STARTS IN TEN. PRAYING IT DOESN’T INVOLVE FISH GUTS. WILL REPORT BACK IF I’M NOT EATEN.”
I smirked, shaking my head, but also couldn’t help feeling worried. I hoped she was just giving melodrama and it wouldn’t actually involve getting into the water.
I texted back:
“Industrial estate for me. Don’t fall in. Text if you see anything weird.”
Then I sent a quick update to my uncle and pocketed my phone. No word from Robert or my family, which probably meant another day of construction work for them. I setoff, already bracing myself for whatever “furnace supervisor” might turn out to mean.
The trip was more stressful than I’d expected, since I had to worry about catching connections to multiple shuttles, all moving around the outskirts of the massive main island. By the time I finally reached Willoughby Isle, I was already sweating.
The place looked almost identical to my island, though the buildings were older, the paint faded, everything with a touch more wear.
Finding Hayden’s street took another few minutes. It cut straight through the middle of the island, houses stacked neatly on either side. Number 3 was a narrow one-bedroom… just like mine.
I rapped on the door, trying not to fidget. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor, and then the door opened.
Hayden filled the frame, looking both completely at ease and somehow untouchable: loose white undershirt, shoulders and arms roped with muscle, baggy pants slung low on his hips. His hair was damp, still dripping at the ends, and a sharp, clean scent—mint, maybe—drifted off his skin. For a second, I forgot what I was supposed to say.
