Chapter Eleven #2
Dalton and I debate what to do with our remaining couple hours of daylight.
Ultimately, we overcome the urge to resume the search.
It’s not enough time, and we really need to organize internally.
Hold a meeting with the militia and arrange patrols, while extending that meeting to include Isabel and Phil because we’re about to go into lockdown.
We’re already unofficially locked down, having canceled any excursions, but now it’ll be complete, including a strict curfew.
The restaurant will close at seven. The Roc will do the same.
After that, everyone is to be home, with minimal noise and minimal light.
We’ve drilled for this, but this will be our first live run, and I do not expect it to go smoothly.
Anders and Dalton handle the militia meeting. Dalton takes Rory to that, making up for lost baby time. My job is to inform the town of the curfew. Yolanda helps. We call a town meeting, and we explain that hikers were seen two days ago and we have reason to believe they may not have left the area.
We aren’t overly concerned, we tell them, but we’d like to take the opportunity to test our curfew system.
This will not be another drill. Violations will result in a warning for first offenses and penalties after that.
Of course, when I give the talk, I avoid copspeak like “violations” and “offenses” and even “penalties.” If someone “forgets” the curfew rules, we’ll let them know and we really hope that will be enough.
I go over the rules. Then I open it up to questions. I’m braced for complaints. That was life in Rockton, where I came to regret instituting town meetings because it became a place for people to air their grievances.
But Haven’s Rock is different. The staff is more relaxed, and that translates into more relaxed—and more trusting—residents.
All I get are questions and clarifications, mostly from those who are concerned about accidental penalties, where they get in trouble for using a flashlight to walk to the bathroom.
I answer all of those patiently, until Yolanda finally says, “Look, no one’s going to give you shit for making an honest mistake.
Stop stressing, get to your residences, and lock the hell down. ”
The questions dry up after that. I’m about to dismiss the group when someone speaks up. It’s Arturo, who’s been with us for about a year and works in the greenhouse.
“So those of us whose shifts start before dawn don’t start until it’s light out.”
“That is correct,” I say. “As I said, the restaurant and coffee shop won’t open until ten, to give that staff time to get in. No shift will begin until nine, and we ask you not to leave your residence until eight thirty.”
“Casey already went through this,” Yolanda says.
Arturo says, “So what happens to those lost hours? Do workers need to make them up?”
“No,” I say. “Hours lost at the beginning and ends of shifts are free time, in compensation for the inconvenience. Now, if everyone could proceed—”
“But I don’t start until ten normally, and I’m done at three, which means I lose out on that free time.”
“You only work a five-hour shift,” Yolanda snaps. “Stop nitpicking.”
“But it isn’t fair. Some people will get extra time off—”
“We will work it out,” I say.
“The hell we will,” Yolanda says. “Who’s tracking that and adjusting future shifts? The staff is already going to be working round the clock on the lockdown.” She turns to the residents. “Show of hands. How many of you will not benefit from shortened hours?”
Half the hands go up.
“And how many of you are going to fuss about that when you know that remedying it will mean extra work for the staff, who are already working overtime?”
I wave my arms. “Ignore her. We’re not putting anyone on the spot. If you have an issue with the fairness, you can speak to—”
“Eric,” Yolanda says. “Or me.”
“I was going to say Phil.”
She shrugs. “Sure, that works. He won’t call you out for whining. He’ll just sigh … and tell you no.”
“We will compensate everyone for general inconvenience with extras,” I say.
“Sure,” Yolanda says. “The extra perk of staying safe.”
“Go home,” I say. “Lock down. You have thirty minutes. After that, we’ll start doing rounds and correcting errors in procedure.”
We issue a few warnings. All but one seem to be genuine mistakes. Someone decided to bunk down with their lover and left their own blinds open. Someone forgot their novel at work and thought they had time to retrieve it.
Then there’s Arturo, who had his light blazing and shutters open after the thirty-minute mark.
I gave him ten minutes so I couldn’t be accused of pouncing.
Then I went over myself and politely asked him to remedy the issue.
He claimed that because his blinds were closed and it wasn’t fully dark, he shouldn’t need to also close his shutters.
He wanted the fresh air. I said he could close the shutters or turn off his light—the choice was his.
An hour later, Dalton and I are doing the rounds when we spot light coming from the rear of a residence.
I groan. “It’s Arturo.”
Dalton passes Rory to me. “I’ll handle it.”
I take the baby but shake my head. “Then he can just accuse me of sending you to play bad cop.” I look down at Rory, awake but calm, listening to our voices. “And I’d better not show up holding her, or he’ll accuse me of using my child as a prop.”
Dalton puts his arms out for the baby. “Fair enough, but I’ll go with you. Bad cop holding a baby. He won’t know what to do with that.”
I laugh softly. As we walk, I say, “I don’t know what’s up with Arturo. He’s always been fine.”
“Mmm. Kenny had a run-in with him last month. And Isabel did a few months back.”
“True.”
Both incidents had been the same sort I just had at the meeting, where Arturo had felt he’d been cheated.
In Kenny’s case, Arturo complained because a new resident got a custom chair before he did—except the new resident needed it for a back problem.
In Isabel’s case, Arturo had been arguing that because he was a teetotaler, he was losing out when we had special days that included free drink tickets.
I continue, “He’s pissy about others getting time off. Do we hold the line—everyone will get extras of some sort for the lockdown. Or do we give him something to shut him up.”
“Option one. If we start giving in to him, he’ll never stop complaining.”
“I suppose so. Or there’s option three—see if Muriel will switch shifts. She might. It’ll give her a chance to sleep in.”
Muriel is the other greenhouse worker. Her shift is usually six in the morning until eleven.
I continue, “I could also just adjust both their shifts to three and a half hours. She’ll go for it. She’s chill.”
“She’s the new older woman? Gray hair? Came with her husband?”
I shake my head. “Muriel arrived in the spring. Early forties. Brunette.”
His expression says he’s trying to place her. That’s no insult to Muriel. It’d be worse if he knew who she was right away, because that would imply she’d been trouble.
“She’s quiet. A hard worker. Friendly. At the meeting, she looked ready to raise her hand at the end.
I suspect she realized the problem and was ready to offer a solution.
I’ll have Phil rearrange their shifts, which should also resolve this problem.
” I wave at the lit window. “Now let’s go inside and get it fixed. ”