But the rain, it hasn't fallen since the middle of July/And if it don't come soon my crops will die

[wheyoftheadept]

Saturday sits on a milk crate at a table made from an upended industrial spool.  A woman sits across from her, middle-aged, the marks of hard living carved deep into her face.  Behind them - not even arm’s length - a man lies on a bed so narrow it’s incredible to think two people regularly sleep on it.  Laundry hangs over their head, and every now and then Saturday has to politely lean one way or another to avoid being dripped on.

The room they sit in all there is to the couple’s home.  It’s a cargo container, the top of a stack of three, reachable by ladders they’re now too old to climb.  So they take a longer, roundabout route, up plywood ramps and over roofs packed with junk.  The whole neighborhood is like that - stacks of inhabited containers, balancing among broken down buildings - still inhabited - connected by ladders and planks.  The Lees actually live in a better part of it, close to the Stuffer Shack, black market, and bar that make up the area’s most thriving business district.

“ - it’s the cancer, we think,” Mrs. Lee is saying, with calm grief.  “From when he worked for Monohan.  They said that the factory was too far for any radiation from Glow City, so they’d never bring them inside when the wind was blowing from the northeast.  It wasn’t just Liam, you know.  There’s others.  Of course, that didn’t matter.”  She takes a breath like a knife-blow.  “And then they said he was a, a malingerer, a liar.  That he was just making trouble - ”

She has to stop there and sip from the steaming cup at her side.  Saturday waits, listening to what isn’t being said.  

 “So of course we lost our insurance, and his pension, so we can’t be sure… but we’ve been getting by.  We’ve been getting by,” she repeats, as if praying.  And looks at her husband, who smiles weakly from his bed.

“Ah, well, I guess I just got to be too old.  Not as strong as I was.  Nothing to be done.  We have a little put by, at least.”

“Anything I can do?” The bag of food cooked meals rests on a mile crate near the ice cooler, half-unpacked.  Mrs. Lee rises now to finish the job, loss clinging to her movements.  Mr. Lee’s eyes follow her, aching.  Saturday sees it, and pretends not to.

“This is really more than enough,” Mrs. Lee says.  “Please thank Mr. Ramirez.  And thank you.”

“It’s no problem.  You make great crepes.”  Saturday’s grin is broad, lopsided, and filled with honest solar warmth.  It barely cuts the gloom.  “I tell people to stop and eat ‘em all the time.  Are you gonna need to hire someone on, to help out?”

“Oh, well - the thing is - ” Mrs. Lee starts.  “Well.  I won’t be able to afford to, so I’ll have to - I’ll likely have to close it down.  We never had any children - ”

Mr. Lee closes his eyes.  Saturday goes very still for a moment, like someone hearing a death sentence.  Which it is, really; the stall is all they have for income.  Then something goes click behind her eyes and her smile returns, fierce and confident.

“Hey, Mrs. Lee.  What if I could find someone who’d do it for free?  Like if you promised to teach them how to run it and that they could inherit the stall.  Since you don’t have kids, and all.”

“...well, that would be perfect, but I have to admit, I wouldn’t trust them.  Why would they do that?”

“‘Cause they’re SINless.”  This she says less cheerfully.  “It’s not his fault, though.  He was born into it, like me - he’s a Center kid, too.  Name’s Gabriel, he’s fourteen.  You know without a SIN he can’t work for anyone legally so like, being able to have somethin’ already set up that he can make a living from - that’d really mean a lot.”

Mr. and Mrs. Lee exchange glances, speaking silently and privately as those who’ve been married for a long time do.

“He’d stay at the Center,” Saturday continues.  “We have room in the dorms still, he’d just come over to work.  You could try it out, see if you like each other.”

“We’ll think about it,” Mr. Lee says, after another moment of spousal telepathy.  “Come by the stall in a few days.” There’s a certain easing of tension in his features, not exactly relief, but a little less dread.  Not enough.  But the best Saturday can do.

“Sure thing, Mr. Lee.” Saturday pulls out a deck of cards.  “Now, I’m gonna get my money back.”

“Or so you think,” he counters, and rolls to his side.  “Shuffle and deal, if you dare.”