THANATOSIS

Bus in. Ten hours. Bus out.

Rinse and repeat.

When I was younger, I thought I could escape all this. Be someone other than what I was told I would be. But it hasn't worked out that way.

It's Thursday morning – the hardest time of the week. You've already done three days of this shit, and you haven't even finished the fourth. Tomorrow seems impossible, and the weekend is out of reach.

Rushed breakfast. I put on my rough blue jumpsuit, give Mom a kiss on the cheek, jog to the bus stop. We mumble greetings to each other as we board. We're all tired – some of us are hung over.

We don't talk on the bus. Better to get another 40 minutes of sleep.

A jolt and a screech. I blink a few times. We rise up and shuffle out, zombie-like.

I grab the cold metal of the bus rail and lower myself down. The coarse gravel crunches under my steel-toed boots. I put on my industrial mask, face shield, work gloves, and hard hat. All for our "safety", except the temp agency didn't cover the price. I am my own business, and the jumpsuit, boots, mask, shield, gloves, hat – all tools of my trade. I am an "independent contractor".

I don't feel independent.

I pass by Mal on the way in. She's a decade older than I am, but she's from my neighbourhood. We get each other.

"Morning," I murmur, walking beside her.

"Morning, Aze," she grunts.

"How are the kids?"

"Samara's doing okay." Mal swallows. "Guidance moved her down a level. Her marks are better, but she's pretty crushed."

"Yeah, Sam's a smart cookie – wanted to go to university, right?"

"Yeah. She can still go to college."

"Better than us, at least." I sniff. "I hear university's overrated. No jobs for them, either." I crack my knuckles. "And how's Tim?"

Mal sighs. "You know how Tim is."

I don't broach the subject further.

Keycard readers chirp. Doors swing open. Oil, sweat, burning steel, and dirty human bodies flood my nostrils. My eardrums echo with metal grinding on metal. Molten steel hisses into moulds.

This is the place where I spend most of my waking life.

Mike, the foreman, motions for us to hustle. "Come on, get moving, we've got a big order to fill today! The client's planning a new production line."

We have a few "clients" – Chrysler, Toyota? I can't remember – it changes every once in a while. We don't actually make the cars – we make the parts. Hephaestus Metals Ltd., my company, is just one part of a very long supply chain.

Or is the temp agency "my company"? I don't quite get the legalities of it all.

Mike continues his morning morale booster, gesturing angrily. "You guys have been really fucking up lately – we're well behind on production. If I don't see 100 parts per hour, I swear to god, I'm taking it up with the agency. There's more where you came from, so don't fuck up today."

"Yes, Mike," some of us mutter.

Mike acts like he owns the place, but of course he doesn't. He has the privilege of being an "employee" at Hephaestus Metals Ltd., so he gets benefits, but rumour is his per-hour wage isn't much higher than ours. Doesn't matter – as Mom says, if you give someone a bit of power, they'll abuse it.