Yeah, right.
“Just trying to make sense of some old papers,” I say, keeping it vague.
“Sure.” He nods. Doesn’t push. That’s the first thing I notice about Tommy. He doesn’t push. He opens a door and then steps back and waits to see if you walk through it. “The Rot’s full of people trying to make sense of things. Half the folks here ended up here because something in their life stopped making sense.”
That’s a decent observation, actually.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Oh, awhile. I came in pretty early, before the place was what it is now. Back when it was just squatters and a leaking roof.” He laughs. “The guys have done a hell of a job. Sting especially. The logistics, the trade routes, the whole system. It’s impressive.”
“You work in trade, right?”
“If you can call it work. I count things. Track what comes in, what goes out. Keep the numbers straight. Not exactly glamorous but somebody’s got to do it.”
He’s self-deprecating. Humble. A guy who downplays his contribution, which makes you like him more because he’s not trying to impress you. I get why Mara gravitates toward him. He’s easy. After months in the Rot surrounded by people who are guarded and suspicious and operating on survival instinct, a man who just sits and talks and doesn’t want anything from you is a breath of fresh air.
We talk for maybe twenty minutes. He asks about how I’m adjusting. Whether the Rot feels like home yet. How I’m findingthe work hub, the routines, the rhythms of the place. Normal questions. The kind any friendly person might ask someone who’s been here a few months.
He asks about Dad once. Just once. “Mara mentioned your father was in city government. Before the collapse. That must be tough, sorting through all that history.”
Note to self:kill Mara later.
“I can’t imagine. Going through someone’s papers after they’re gone. All those records and files. Must feel like trying to have a conversation with someone who can’t answer back.”
That hits closer than I’d like. “Yeah,” I say breezily.
He nods with sympathy, then switches to something else, asking Mara about the work-hub schedule. The moment passes. The question about Dad was there and gone, folded into the conversation so naturally that if I weren’t paying attention, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
But I am paying attention because something about this man is bothering me.
I can’t figure out what it is. He’s nice. He’s genuine. Or he seems genuine, which in the Rot is close enough. He hasn’t said a single thing that’s out of line. He hasn’t pressed for information or steered the conversation anywhere suspicious. He asked about Dad the way anyone might ask, with sympathy and tact, then moved on.
So why am I sitting here with a low hum in the back of my brain that won’t shut up?
Maybe it’s the Rot. This place rewires you. I’ve been here long enough that I look for angles in everything, suspect motives in casual conversation, read threat into kindness. That’s what the Rot does. It turns you into someone who can’t accept a friendly gesture without checking it for traps.
Maybe that’s all this is. Me being paranoid. Me turning into Sting.
Tommy stands to leave and shakes my hand again. Same measured grip. “Great to finally meet you, Vi. Mara’s lucky to have a friend like you in here.”
“See ya around,” I say.
“Yup.” One more smile. Then he’s gone, walking toward the west corridor, blending into the flow of Rotters heading back to their stations. Within seconds, I’ve lost him in the crowd.
Mara looks at me, expectant. “So?”
“He’s nice.”
“Right? I told you.”
“Yeah. He’s nice. But you shouldn’t have told him about my father and my papers. That’s my business.”
She rolls her eyes, and I decide to stop telling her things. Just too risky. She goes back to her soup and I go back to mine.
But the hum in the back of my brain doesn’t stop. I don’t know what it’s telling me, why a pleasant conversation with a pleasant man has left me with a feeling I can’t name.
50
