"Dude," he groans, "why is this job aging us ten years?"
Sarah laughs. "Because Helion owns our souls. They feed on it."
"Funny," I say dryly, positioning a sensor node on the dummy unit. "I didn’t see that in the contract. We should be getting paid for that."
“Right!” Sarah chimes.
They both release a light laugh, but underneath it, all of us know it’s true.
The morning drags. We run motion loops, correct errors, reset stubborn servos. At one point, the test unit mimics a gesture wrong and nearly knocks a light panel off the wall. Tom throws his hands up.
"Bro, it’s Friday. Why is everything broken?"
Sarah looks at me. "Because we’re all exhausted."
She means more than just Tom and herself. I ignore it.
By lunch, I can barely think. My stomach growls, but eating feels like too much effort. I grab a protein bar and sit in the break area, head resting in my hand.
Sarah ends up across from me, of course she does, but I noticed she kept her distance today. Maybe even she can tell I’m too far gone for small talk. But her concern seems to override her need to give me space.
"You okay?" she asks softly.
"Just tired."
"Did you not getanysleep at all last night?"
I nod. But it’s not the work that flashes in my mind.
It’s Gabby. Her eyes. Her voice.
The way I fell asleep in the middle of… God.
I swallow hard and try to refocus.
My mind starts to meld together the missing pieces that were robbed from me as a result of my exhaustion.
My poor wife.
I couldn't even be there for her last night. We were talking about something weren't we? My mind struggles to even remember. It's like I'm missing gigantic chunks of time.
Speaking of chunks of time… I feel like I just woke up from another zone out. I honestly can't recall the last half hour.
Sarah stands a few feet away, cradling the big control tablet in both hands. It’s one of those rugged 16-inch beasts; thin, matte black, and heavy enough that most people grip it tight. Not her despite her dainty hands. She holds it the relaxed way she always does when her arms need a break: elbows bent, forearms extended forward like she’s steering something invisible, knuckles almost touching. The bottom edge balances across the tops of her wrists, leaving her hands free underneath. She looks like she's carrying a tray when she does that, and for whatever reason, it looks very cute.
Tom wanders over from the sensor cart, tossing a calibration puck between his hands like it’s a toy. “Wake up, sunshine,” he says to me. “You look like death warmed over in a microwave.”
I don’t look up, but my eyes pop open. “Thanks. Very helpful.”
“Seriously, man. When’s the last time you saw your bed for more than thirty minutes?”
“Last night,” I mutter. “I think.”
Sarah’s mouth curves into that soft, worried shape she gets. “You were zoning out during the last reset. I had to call your name three times.”
“I heard you the first time,” I say. “Just… processing.”
Tom snorts. “Processing how to stay upright, probably. Anyway, grip test is next.”
