Ray's apartment was dark when he returned. He didn't bother turning on the lights—that cost electricity, which cost time added to his monthly utility bill. Instead, he navigated by the green glow of his clock and the dim streetlight filtering through his window.
19:14:27.
He collapsed onto his mattress without bothering to undress. Every muscle in his body screamed from ten hours of standing, reaching, sorting. This was the part of the day he hated most—the quiet hours when there was nothing to do but think, and thinking in Dayton was dangerous.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the room where a cardboard box sat, untouched since the funeral. His mother's things. Not much—a few clothes, some photographs from before the time system went fully digital, a small music box that no longer worked. That was all fifty years of life amounted to in the end. A box of memories and a zero on your arm.
Ray closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept circling back to the same questions that haunted everyone in Dayton: How much longer could he keep this up? How many more shifts before his luck ran out? What was the point of surviving if survival was all there was?
A sharp knock on the door jolted him upright.
Ray checked his clock—19:11:03—and approached the door cautiously. Visitors at night were rarely good news. Through the thin wood, he could hear breathing. Heavy, panicked breathing.
"Ray? Ray, it's me. Open up."
Marcus.
Ray unbolted the door and pulled it open. His friend stumbled inside, his face slick with sweat, his eyes wild. In the glow of both their clocks, Ray could see Marcus's time: 02:17:44.
Two hours.
"What the hell happened?" Ray demanded, closing the door behind him.
Marcus paced the small room like a caged animal, his hands shaking. "They changed the rates. Mid-shift, they changed the fucking rates."
"What are you talking about?"
"The factory. After lunch break, Kors announced new 'administrative fees.' Processing charges, equipment usage fees, quality control assessments—they're calling it a dozen different things, but it's all the same. They're taking more time." Marcus's voice cracked. "I thought I had four days this morning, Ray. Four days. I worked a full shift, and now I have two hours."
Ray felt ice slide down his spine. "That's not legal. They can't just—"
"Can't they?" Marcus laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Who's going to stop them? The Timekeepers? They work for the same people who own the factory. The courts? You need time to file a complaint, time to wait for a hearing, time we don't have."
It was true. Ray knew it was true. The system was designed to be inescapable. Every avenue of resistance required the one resource the poor didn't have: time.
"What are you going to do?" Ray asked quietly.
Marcus stopped pacing and looked at his arm. 02:15:12. "I don't know. I have a brother in Milltown. Maybe I can reach him, borrow enough to get through until next week's wages."
"The crossing toll is an hour each way. You don't have that."
"I know!" Marcus's shout echoed in the small space. Then, quieter: "I know. But what else can I do? Rob a time lender? End up like the Fortis brothers? I've got two hours, Ray. Two hours to figure out how to stay alive."
Ray looked at his own arm. 19:08:56. He had nineteen hours. If he gave Marcus ten, he'd be down to nine—enough to survive tomorrow if he skipped meals, walked to work, and prayed nothing went wrong. It would put him dangerously close to the edge.
But Marcus was his friend. One of the only real friends he had.
Ray held out his arm. "Take ten hours."
Marcus stared at him. "Ray, no. You can't—"
"I can, and I am. We're not letting you die in the street." Ray grabbed Marcus's arm and pressed their wrists together. In Dayton, everyone knew how to do manual transfers—it was the only way to help each other when the system was designed to keep you separated.
The transfer took thirty seconds. Ray watched his clock drop: 18:58:56... 18:38:56... 13:38:56... 9:08:56.
Marcus's clock climbed to 12:15:12.
When they separated, Marcus's eyes were wet. "I'll pay you back. I swear, Ray, I'll—"
"Just stay alive," Ray interrupted. "That's all the payment I need."
Marcus nodded, unable to speak, and left without another word.
Ray stood alone in his dark apartment, staring at his arm. Nine hours. He'd just put himself in exactly the kind of position he'd sworn never to be in again. The kind of position his mother had been in two weeks ago.
He checked the time: 9:06:33.
Sleep was impossible now. Ray lay on his mattress, watching the numbers count down, doing the math over and over. Skip breakfast—save four minutes. Walk quickly to work—save three minutes. Don't buy lunch—save two minutes. Work the full shift, earn eight hours and twenty minutes. He'd end the day with roughly seventeen hours if nothing went wrong.
If nothing went wrong.
That was always the gamble.
Around midnight, Ray heard sirens outside. He went to the window and looked down at the street. Two Timekeeper vehicles, their blue lights flashing, had stopped three blocks away. A crowd was gathering. Ray couldn't see what was happening, but he didn't need to. Someone had run out of time. Someone always did.
He wondered if it was someone he knew. Then he stopped wondering, because that way lay madness.
Ray returned to his mattress and finally, mercifully, fell into a fitful sleep.
---
He woke to pounding on his door.
Ray's first instinct was to check his clock: 6:47:12. Morning. He'd slept through most of the night. The pounding continued, aggressive and insistent.
"Open up! Timekeeper inspection!"
Ray's blood turned to ice. Timekeeper inspection. They happened randomly in Dayton, usually when someone was suspected of illegal time transfers or black market dealings. They had the authority to drain your clock if they found violations, ask questions later.
"I'm coming!" Ray called out, pulling on pants and trying to calm his racing heart.
He opened the door to find two Timekeepers standing in the hallway—a man and a woman, both in grey uniforms with their badges prominently displayed. Behind them, he could see Mr. Perez and Mrs. Chen being questioned by other officers.
"Ray Shivers?" the male Timekeeper asked, consulting a tablet.
"Yes."
"We're conducting routine sweeps. May we see your arm?"
It wasn't really a question. Ray held out his left arm. The female Timekeeper scanned it with a handheld device. The screen glowed as it pulled up his recent transaction history.
"You made a transfer last night," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Ten hours to Marcus Webb. That's a significant amount for someone in your bracket."
"He's a friend. He needed help."
"Did he pay you back?"
"Not yet. He will."
The male Timekeeper stepped closer. "Unlicensed lending is illegal, Mr. Shivers. Charging interest on time transfers without proper authorization carries a penalty of—"
"I'm not charging interest," Ray interrupted. "It was a gift. Friends help each other."
The Timekeepers exchanged glances. The woman looked back at her scanner. "Your current balance is six hours and forty-seven minutes. That's dangerously low. How do you plan to survive today?"
"I work at Stamford Manufacturing. My shift starts in two hours. I'll be fine."
Another exchanged glance. Ray's stomach tightened. Something was wrong.
"Mr. Shivers," the male Timekeeper said slowly, "Stamford Manufacturing suspended operations this morning. Factory-wide shutdown for equipment maintenance. All workers have been placed on unpaid leave for the next three days."
The world tilted.
Three days. Unpaid.
Ray's clock read 6:45:01. Less than seven hours. And no way to earn more.
"That's... that's not possible," Ray said, hearing the desperation in his own voice. "They can't just shut down without notice. We need—"
"Take it up with your employer," the female Timekeeper said, already turning away. "We're done here. Keep your transfers legal, Mr. Shivers. Next time we won't be so understanding."
They moved on to the next apartment, leaving Ray standing in his doorway with six hours and forty-five minutes on his clock and no way to earn more.
He closed the door and leaned against it, his mind racing through options. None of them were good.
He could try to find day labor—but everyone else from the factory would have the same idea, flooding the market. He could sell his possessions—but he had nothing worth more than minutes. He could try to borrow from a time lender—but the interest rates in Dayton were designed to trap you in debt until your clock ran out.
Or he could do what desperate people always did in Dayton.
He could cross into Milltown and try to take what he needed.
Ray checked his clock: 6:43:17.
The countdown continued.
And for the first time in three years, Ray Shivers didn't know if he was going to survive it.
-