Chapter 10 - Calluses and Cold Sweat
The 5:00 AM siren ripped Gage from the thinnest sleep he had ever known. The narrow iron cot in the bunkhouse had springs that dug into his ribs, and the communal shower offered only tepid, mineral-heavy water.
By 5:45, he was inside the corrugated metal belly of a shipping container, the temperature freezing around him. Heavy wooden crates filled with automotive parts stretched from floor to ceiling.
"Lift with your legs, pretty boy," Miller barked from the dock, tapping his clipboard. "Two hundred crates before noon, or you don't get the lunch voucher."
Gage reached for the first crate. Splinters bit through his soft, uncallused palms immediately. His designer loafers slipped on the metal flooring. Within an hour, his back felt as though hot needles were driven into his spine. His lungs burned, coughing up industrial dust.
By eleven o'clock, his hands were bleeding, blistered and raw. He dropped to his knees, dropping a heavy crate that split open, spilling steel bolts across the bay.
"I can't!" Gage sobbed, clutching his shredded palms against his chest. "I can't do this! Call Arthur! Tell him I'll do anything!"
Miller walked over, his heavy boot kicking a stray bolt out of the way. He looked down at the weeping heir with cold indifference. "Arthur said if you quit, the dormitory lock gets changed immediately. You're thirty crates behind. Start stacking, or start walking."
May you like
Gage looked toward the open gate, toward the highway. Beyond lay cold independence and certain starvation. Whimpering, he reached back into the steel.
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