He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out folded bills, pre-counted and ready. Smart. Nothing extends these interactions like fumbling for payment.
“The amount we discussed,” he says, holding it out.
I take the cash without looking at it and slide it into my front pocket. No counting, and no receipt.
“Remember what I told you on the phone,” I say, standing and brushing invisible dust from my knees. “I opened it. I didn’t break it. Lock still works.”
“Got it, man,” he says, already dismissing me as he heads inside, which is how it should be.
I shoulder my small backpack and turn away.
I walk toward the stairwell rather than waiting for the slow-ass elevator.
I live by a system that includes never lingering and never regretting.
The temperature in the stairwell drops several degrees as the door closes behind me, and my footsteps echo as I hurry down to the ground floor, running mental calculations.
With this job, the rent is covered, utilities handled, groceries managed, and the college fund is added to.
It’s the endless math of living paycheck to paycheck.
I push through the exterior door, and the late afternoon sunlight stings my eyes after the dim stairwell.
Car exhaust fills the air, and the cold autumn breeze sweeps fallen leaves across the sidewalk.
In a few more weeks, they’ll be clogging the gutters in Brickwell until the city sends some street cleaners to sweep up the mess.
People rush past on their way home from jobs, and I cut between them, invisible in my ordinary clothes and unmemorable appearance.
Two blocks away, I pull out my phone and tap a message to the dispatcher at Ironclad.
Ash
74 complete.
No details, no context. Just a job number closedout, and another tick mark in the ledger of my particular skills. The phone buzzes with a reply.
Dispatch
Wednesday, 9am.
I confirm with a thumbs-up and pocket the device.
The sun hangs low over the buildings as I angle toward the bus stop that will take me across the invisible border between Brickwell and Ashford Heights.
On the ride over, I shrug out of my coveralls, revealing my basic black slacks and black shirt, the uniform for my legal job. The hat, gloves, and coveralls go into my backpack, along with my locksmith tools.
Using my reflection in the window, I rake my hands through my dark brown hair and tie it back into a short ponytail.
The bus deposits me two blocks from the Beacon on Beacon Diner Street, close enough to see the flickering neon sign through the early evening haze.
I have thirteen minutes before my shift starts.
I slip through the back entrance where delivery trucks unload during the day. The heavy metal door groans on its hinges, announcing my arrival tonobody in particular. The kitchen already pulses with activity, the dinner rush preparations in full swing.
Heat slams into me like a physical wall, carrying the mingled scents of frying onions, simmering stock, and industrial cleaner.
Sweat springs to my forehead as I stow my backpack in the employee lockers.
