\nI pull my little red wagon along behind me. Its lumpy wheels, as ancient as I am, bump over cracks in the decaying concrete ramp that leads to the below-grade train station that\u2019s become home, unconcerned that precious bits I\u2019ve gathered from Above might spill out despite the bungeed tarp covering. I pass curtained tents lit from within by rush lights that send up dirty smoke, painting the ceiling black. Every so often, hanging between the hovels, there\u2019s a grimy, unlit light fixture patiently waiting for its electrical circuit to open again. They sway gently in the breeze blowing in through the cracks of Columbia Station\u2019s patched over roof.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen I reach the end of the block, I turn left and head for my workshop, past carefully angled mirrors that amplify and direct light down to the subterranean grow spaces. I pass huddled figures of beggar children, orphans of people dead of disease or squabble. Their eyes, too big in gaunt faces, track my movement as unerringly as the cats that keep the rats at bay.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ya do wid all dat, Grandma?\u201d A face appears at my elbow, gaze curious on my haul.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMake stuff,\u201d I grumble. Maybe it\u2019ll take the hint.\n<\/p>\n
\nNo such luck. The kid, maybe twelve years old, follows me, poking at the wagon\u2019s tarp.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDon\u2019t touch that.\u201d Last thing I need is some urchin buggering off with the alternator I\u2019ve spent days searching for, diligently ignoring the armed escort Zelwicki had insisted I take with me. There\u2019s only so far the boss is willing to go to indulge my foibles, and risking her only engineer isn\u2019t on her map.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe kid turns big black eyes on me, matted and scraggly black hair hiding much of its features.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ya make, Grandma?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cStuff.\u201d Clearly the kid didn\u2019t get the memo. But then, the kid has no idea what a memo is. Hell, even I barely remember what they look like. No one wastes paper for reading or writing anymore, not when it\u2019s the best way to turn a spark into a cook fire.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBeforetimes things? Can I see?\u201d the kid asks, still on my heels when I get to my shop door.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo, you can\u2019t. Go on with ya, I\u2019ve got work to do. Stop bothering me.\u201d I make shooing motions at the kid. I don\u2019t want it shedding head lice in my space.\n<\/p>\n
\nI open the door. A rustle in the racking over my workbench warns me I\u2019ve got four-legged company. Hopefully, it\u2019s the grey tabby tom that’s taken a shine to me, rather than the rats he\u2019s meant to hunt.\n<\/p>\n
\nFilthy creatures, rats. Almost as dirty as the kid gawping at the pegboard above my bench. Every tool gleams, each hanging below precisely lettered labels. I swing the magnifying glass away from the bench\u2019s wall, working the articulated arm until it\u2019s aimed at the wagon. I flick on its florescent light.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI mean it, kid. Git. I have work to do.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI want to help,\u201d it says, wide eyes fixated on the lamp.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHelp? Know anything about turbines?\u201d I fix the kid with a beady glare.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI could learn.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHa,\u201d I say with a snort. \u201cYou can\u2019t even read.\u201d I take a single, menacing step in the kid\u2019s direction. \u201cGIT!\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThe only heads up I get is the rattle of loose parts colliding. By the time I look, it\u2019s already too late. The cat leaps from overhead, a bin of junk motors tumbling down in his wake. I would\u2019ve forgiven him for everything but the one sound that makes my throat seize up: the crash of steel on glass. The lamp light blinks out.\n<\/p>\n
\nI stare at the carnage, motionless.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIs that bad?\u201d the kid asks from my elbow, making me jump out of my skin.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m too aghast to protest the kid\u2019s encroachment into my space. \u201cYeah.\u201d I reach for the lamp\u2019s head, hoping against hope that all I need do is wiggle the circular bulb a bit. \u201cI can\u2019t see to solder circuit boards without the light.\u201d Not all the wiggling in the world brings the light back on. At least the thick glass weathered the impact without damage.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCould I help? Hold a candle for you, maybe?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nImpotent anger boils up. \u201cI already told you to git gone,\u201d I say through clenched teeth. \u201cYou didn\u2019t listen and now lookit. If you don\u2019t scram this minute, I\u2019m gonna beat you into next week. You hear?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nThere\u2019s a quiet slap of bare feet on concrete, then I\u2019m alone. I ease my old bones onto the stool, slumping in defeat. Now what?\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nA rap on the door frame draws my attention. \u201cHeard you\u2019re back,\u201d Zelwicki says. Greying blonde hair peeks out from under a faded bandanna. Lines framing pale blue eyes deepen when she makes eye contact. \u201cWhat happened?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nI wave wordlessly at the mess on my bench and the floor around my feet.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDamage?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nA sob hitches in my throat. I tap the dark magnifying glass. I\u2019m so tired. Trying to keep our little community\u2019s power functioning is exhausting. And it just got immeasurably harder.\n<\/p>\n
\nDammit.\n<\/p>\n
\nZelwicki inspects the lamp. \u201cI don\u2019t suppose you\u2019ve got a spare?\u201d She winces when I shake my head, then sighs. \u201cWell, you\u2019ll have <\/em>to take on an apprentice now.\u201d She wags her finger at me. \u201cI\u2019ve been telling you that for too long already, Sue. What happens to us if you get hit by a bus?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI snort at the ritual joke. \u201cIt\u2019s job security,\u201d I answer, though mostly out of habit rather than humor.\n<\/p>\n \nZelwicki\u2019s face turns serious. \u201cAll kidding aside, you and I aren\u2019t going to be around forever. You have to pass on what you know. Before it\u2019s lost.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI mumble something vague. She gives me a look, but drops it. \u201cGood luck,\u201d she says, patting my shoulder.\n<\/p>\n \nZelwicki leaves and I sit, stewing, until the sun goes down and the mirrors outside my shop go dark. Distant murmurs of conversation float in with the aromas of cook fires. Either I get that turbine up and running, or cook fires will be a permanent feature.\n<\/p>\n \nI slap my thighs and grimace. Time to grow up, I guess. Zelwicki\u2019s right. I\u2019m not going to be around forever. With a resigned sigh, I heave myself off the stool and shuffle out of my shop. Most of the orphans have disappeared, likely scrounging for scraps. My kid is still there, though, watching me warily as I draw near.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019re going to have to shave off that hair if you want to learn from me,\u201d I say to her, keeping my face stern.\n<\/p>\n \nThe kid\u2019s smile lights up the whole station.\n<\/p>\n Charlotte H. Lee\u2019s current home base is British Columbia\u2019s Lower Mainland, where she now gleefully hides from Canadian winters. Her stories have appeared in Little Blue Marble, Metaphorosis, The Overcast, and others. You can find links to her published work at www.charlottehlee.com.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I pull my little red wagon along behind me. Its lumpy wheels, as ancient as I am, bump over cracks in the decaying concrete ramp that leads to the below-grade train station that\u2019s become home, unconcerned that precious bits I\u2019ve gathered from Above might spill out despite the bungeed tarp covering. I pass curtained tents …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":76328,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20131],"tags":[20132],"class_list":["post-140287","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-49-autumn-2023","tag-the-colored-lens-49-autumn-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140287","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/76328"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140287"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140287\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140288,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140287\/revisions\/140288"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140287"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140287"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140287"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}