Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
“Tani?” His voice came through, husky and rough from sleep. Something about the sound caught my attention, sharper than I expected.
“Um, did I catch you too early?” I asked.
A pause. “I’m up. How are you feeling?”
“Better. The hospital cleared me last night.”
“Good.” Another pause.
“Do you have your job list open?” I asked.
The third pause was long enough to make me wonder if he might hang up. “Why?” he finally responded.
I tried to keep my tone even. “I thought I could call for advice. Aren’t you still my employment officer?”
I heard the faint sound of him exhaling, then fabric shifting—sheets, maybe. When he spoke again, his voice was clearer, but not exactly eager. “Give me a second.” Muffled footsteps. Something thudded in the background. “Alright. I’m looking at it now.”
I scrolled down my own screen. “So, any recommendations?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “Furnace Supervisor. Factory 5. Should be three postings.” His words were clipped, like he was reciting from a script.
“So you can see my screen?” I confirmed.
“That’s how it works,” he muttered. “Occupational oversight.”
“Right. So what does the job actually involve?”
“Mostly keeping the temperatures steady, making sure nothing blows.” A beat. “They don’t let just anyone near the industrial estate.”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Better than the mines,” he said. “More physical, but steady. I only did it once, but the pay was decent.”
“And the risk?”
He hesitated, just a hitch in his breath. “No wildlife. Just machines and heat. Stay alert and you should survive.”
“And that’s definitely your top pick?” I asked, scrolling through the rest of the jobs.
“It’s the best on today’s list, from what I can see,” he said. “Cleaning gigs pay less, ocean mining’s always a crapshoot, and the water plant isn’t much better.”
“Factory 5,” I murmured, tapping to reserve it. “Start time is nine.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You’ll want to leave early. It’s a trek from your place. Aim for seven, maybe earlier. Or…” There was a hesitation, almost like he was debating himself. “If you’d rather not get lost, I could meet you en route. I’m working there too today.”
I glanced at the address. “You mean you’re working at Factory 5 too?”
“Yeah. Close enough to home, and I don’t feel like roaming the islands.”
“So… where should I find you?”
“My place,” he said, with the same unvarnished directness. “I’ll text the address.”
“Alright,” I replied, thrown by how casual—and yet final—it sounded.
He hung up without another word. A moment later, my phone buzzed with his address: 3, Scorscy Road, Willoughby Isle.
Definitely not your standard issue employment officer, I thought, still staring at my phone screen. I couldn’t decide if that made things simpler… or just a whole lot stranger.
As I stepped out the door, my phone pinged with a message from Jessie:
“SCRAPER JOB ON DOCK 3!! STARTS IN TEN. PRAYING IT DOESN’T INVOLVE FISH GUTS. WILL REPORT BACK IF I’M NOT EATEN.”
I smirked, shaking my head, but also couldn’t help feeling worried. I hoped she was just giving melodrama and it wouldn’t actually involve getting into the water.
I texted back:
“Industrial estate for me. Don’t fall in. Text if you see anything weird.”
Then I sent a quick update to my uncle and pocketed my phone. No word from Robert or my family, which probably meant another day of construction work for them. I set off, already bracing myself for whatever “furnace supervisor” might turn out to mean.
The trip was more stressful than I’d expected, since I had to worry about catching connections to multiple shuttles, all moving around the outskirts of the massive main island. By the time I finally reached Willoughby Isle, I was already sweating.
The place looked almost identical to my island, though the buildings were older, the paint faded, everything with a touch more wear.
Finding Hayden’s street took another few minutes. It cut straight through the middle of the island, houses stacked neatly on either side. Number 3 was a narrow one-bedroom… just like mine.
I rapped on the door, trying not to fidget. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor, and then the door opened.
Hayden filled the frame, looking both completely at ease and somehow untouchable: loose white undershirt, shoulders and arms roped with muscle, baggy pants slung low on his hips.
His hair was damp, still dripping at the ends, and a sharp, clean scent—mint, maybe—drifted off his skin.
For a second, I forgot what I was supposed to say.
“So, you do own something besides uniforms,” I managed, fighting not to stare.
He gave a dry snort, stepping back to let me in. “Yeah, I go wild sometimes. Even sleep in them, if I’m feeling reckless.”
I stepped inside, acutely aware of the echo of his presence in this small space. Twins, I thought—if only by architecture. Or maybe just two people thrown into matching boxes, figuring out what to do with the space between.
When I stepped inside, I realized he didn’t look quite as refreshed as I’d thought, catching him on the porch with his sharp scent and damp hair. Up close, the lines under his eyes were perceptible. I hoped they weren’t due to my early call this morning.
He moved to the kettle and snapped the lid shut. “I was about to make some tea. You want any?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
“I don’t have regular tea,” he continued, turning back to me. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “It’s herbal, something we used to put together back… well, back when.”
His voice roughened slightly at the last bit, but I pretended not to notice. “What’s in it?”
He exhaled, rolling his neck. “A bunch of herbs.”
I smiled faintly. “Figures. Where do you get them?”
“Floating market. Herbs and honey, those I pay for. Everything else, I live off work lunches.” He fished a jar of dried herbs from the cupboard, the contents green and brown and tangled.
I found myself wondering who he was saving for, if anyone. He lived alone, didn’t talk about anyone from before. Did he have family somewhere, or was there no one left to wait for? What got him out of bed each morning?
But I just watched him work, letting the questions sit, not sure I wanted the answers yet.
After we drained the last of the tea, Hayden vanished upstairs. I stood awkwardly in his kitchen, acutely aware of how little he’d said since I’d arrived. When he reappeared in a uniform, he barely paused, just grabbed his bag, opened the door, and waited, gaze expectant.
We left in silence, matching pace down the street. He didn’t bother with small talk, just kept his eyes on the road ahead as if already mapping the route in his head.
On the shuttle, we found the only two seats together near the back, wedged in among workers in faded uniforms and grim morning faces. Hayden let me take the window, but his posture was all elbows and angles, arms crossed, daring the world to take up more space than it deserved.
Outside, agricultural scenery blurred by—patches of green and brown, square plots, lines of fruit trees—but I didn’t really see any of it.
My attention kept dragging back to Hayden’s profile: cut jaw, dark lashes, a line of tiredness under his eyes that seemed to be from more than just lack of sleep.
He didn’t speak, didn’t fidget, just watched the shifting landscape with the same quiet focus he brought to everything else.
Five minutes in, as we curved along a razor-thin track above a valley, Hayden finally leaned in, just enough that I felt the heat of his shoulder, not quite touching mine.
“Look left,” he said, voice low. “That’s the industrial quarter.”
I followed his gesture. Black smoke twisted up from three distant chimneys, a jagged peak looming beyond. The sight made my stomach knot, a reminder of where we were headed.
“Impressive,” I managed.
“Wait till you see the inside,” he muttered.
The shuttle angled upward, rails clattering. The closer we drew to the mountain, the more claustrophobic the world became. At the tunnel mouth, darkness swallowed us. The shuttle roared, rattling around us; dim bulbs flickered along the curved walls.
For a moment, I could feel nothing but the press of strangers, the sharp scent of Hayden’s soap, and the dark ahead—a tunnel that felt longer, somehow, for the silence between us.
And then, after two minutes, it became brighter. We pulled into an underground station, and the shuttle slowed. I looked around, my eyes falling on a long platform.
The vehicle’s doors slid open with a low hiss.
The crowd surged to their feet, eager to spill out.
I hung back a moment, waiting for Hayden to move, then followed him onto the broad concrete platform.
Seven yawning entryways gaped along the wall, each marked by wide double doors leading into fresh tunnels.
Above each, glowing signs announced their route numbers.
“We’re over there, route five,” Hayden said, his voice low. He nodded toward a door halfway down, then set off at a brisk pace. I fell in behind him, the tunnel swallowing us both.
We walked for several hundred yards, our footsteps merging with the steady shuffle of the crowd, echoes chasing us down the length of the tunnel.
At the far end, another set of barriers loomed.
We scanned our rings and stepped through, emerging into a cavernous space that could have swallowed our entire commune.
The cave was crammed with towering rectangular containers, each one heaped with mounds of clay, jagged rocks, and hunks of metal in every shade—copper, slate, iron-black—most of which I couldn’t name.
Back home, we mainly built with wood and rope.
The idea of forging floating platforms from these raw, stubborn chunks felt like a kind of sorcery.
And where did they get all these materials? Could they all have been sourced locally?
Hayden nodded toward the far wall. “This way.”