I definitely needed the credits. It had been nearly five years since Daddy had died; four years since I’d finally been forced to take this job or risk losing the lease on our apartment. By the time I’d started at the shuttle engine factory, I’d burned through all the savings Daddy had scraped together and put aside for my art training on Elora Station.
I never made it to the glittering commerce station. Obviously.
He died two weeks before I was due to leave. And after that, everything had just sort of begun to unravel all around me. It happened slowly at first – with rent payments and bills piling up like falling snow – and then more quickly, until I was selling my precious, unopened sets of paint just to eat.
The paints Daddy had worked so hard to buy for me.
This is my Shiloh,he would say to anyone who would listen.She’s going to be a famous artist.
It seemed unfairly cruel, the way that time had snatched the warm quality of his voice from me. But my visual memory had always been strong, and I could still see the pride that shaped his smile as easily as if he were standing right in front of me and beaming.
If he could only see me now.
He’d always believed that my painting would get me out of New Toronto. Off of Terratribe I entirely. That if he fostered my talents and supported me, I’d be granted a different sort of life than the one he’d led.
For a time, I had believed that, too.
But then he had died. And ever since then, my life had devolved into what felt like a series of slaps to the face, each one more stinging than the last.
And now Rod wanted to talk to me. After I’d missed three days of work in a row.
Better get this over with quickly.
The faster I finished talking to Rod, the faster I could clock in and start getting paid. I considered clocking in before going to see Rod, but decided not to push it. I doubted he’d approve that. He likely wouldn’t be feeling generous after I’d missed more than half this week already. Sighing and making sure my curly hair was still safely secured in its tight bun (essential for safety around the machinery, but already hurting my scalp and threatening a migraine aftershock) I left the changeroom,slipping on my clear safety glasses. Then, I headed down the metal stairs.
Wincing, I pulled ear plugs from my pocket as the sounds of the floor battered me. Even before official line-start, the air was loud with the bang of metal on metal and the scream of saws and engines. My hands trembled slightly as I handled the ear plugs. I got the right one secured, but dropped the other. The squishy bit of bright pink foam went skittering between my boots like an insect with a mind of its own, promptly disappearing through a gap in the steps, settling somewhere on the filthy floor below.
“Shit!” I slapped my left hand over my ear and gritted my teeth. I’d have to wait to get another pair from Rod. There was no point trying to find that little thing below the stairs. Even if I did find it, it would be so foul from the floor it would likely be too much of a biohazard to touch my bare skin, let alone put in my ear, right next to my freaking brain.
“Shit,” I said again, more softly, hustling down the stairs. That was another “if Daddy could only see me now” moment. I’d never really used swear words when he was alive. I’d only sworn in front of him once, when I was sixteen years old.
“I never wanna hear language like that coming out of your mouth,” he’d said. “You’re mad? You’re angry? You wanna swear about something? You put it in your paint.”
I’d done that ever since.
Until now. It was as if the further and further I got from the time my father was alive, the more the little threads that made memekept snapping.
I wondered how many were even left.
With my head down and my elbow up to position my hand over my ear, I actually didn’t notice Rod approaching the stairs. When I reached the bottom, I nearly crashed right into him.
“Sorry!” I gasped, reeling backwards, one of my feet going back up to the last stair I’d just stepped down off of.
Instead of replying, he held up a tiny plastic package.
New earplugs.
Absurdly, I swallowed back what felt like oncoming tears. For the first time in too long, I felt something close to optimism. Maybe I’d been too harsh earlier, when I’d imagined what he’d want to talk to me about. Maybe he was more thoughtful than I’d given him credit for. I’d never actually had much of a conversation with him before now.
Maybe I was wrong.
“Thank you!” I shouted over the sound of the floor’s banging and grinding. I opened the package – very carefully – and put the left earplug in. It wasn’t perfect, but it reduced the background noise to a manageable hum. And you still needed to be able to hear people’s voices. Missing somebody’s shout of “Duck!” or “Fire!” could have lethal consequences.
“Come on,” Rod said, turning and leading me to our zone. He had a small office there, a tiny room with glass windows that could look out onto our part of the line. But it was blissfully quiet in there once he shut the door behind us. I took out my earplugs, taking care that I didn’t stow them in the pocket that had a hole in it. I’d forgotten to fix that after my last shift on Monday. I’d felt the migraine coming on and had been desperate to get home, hoping to stave it off so I’d be able to make it back into work the next day.
That obviously hadn’t happened.
“So. Shiloh,” Rod said, leaning back against his rickety desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “Nice of you to join us this fine Friday.”
