Generator

The generator sat on her workbench—blocky, dented, pre-collapse industrial. She’d traded two weeks of protein rations for the tip. Now it was gutted, components laid out on the drop cloth.

Oil and ozone. Almost comforting.

Fuel line’s corroded. Spark array’s off. A few other parts look sketchy but salvageable.

Emma gets to work.

Three hours later, it turns over. Rough at first, then steady. She lets it run for ten minutes, watching for smoke or weird vibrations. Nothing. It holds.

Good enough.

She wipes her hands and starts putting tools back where they belong. Wrench. Screwdrivers. The multimeter goes in its case. The generator stays on the bench, cooling. She’ll deal with it tomorrow.

She grabs a bottle from the shelf—water with a splash of something that used to be bourbon—and heads up the narrow stairs to the observation deck.

The deck is tucked under an overhang, hidden from below. Just concrete, a rusted railing, and a view of the river cutting through the badlands. The water’s low this time of year, exposing rocks and old rebar.

She sits. Takes a drink.

Garrett will try to screw her. He always does. She’ll need to get there early, before he’s had his coffee and sharpened his bullshit. Offer firm. No negotiation. Take it or she walks.

The sun’s going down. The sky’s turning orange over the flats.

She takes another drink and watches the light fade.