Pickup Time

Cadge awoke stretched across a wrought-iron park bench. A Chicago Streets and Sanitation vehicle’s roof-mounted camera swiveled his way, peering with electronic indifference, then swung toward the alley. Not far behind, a back-loader rumbled slow, heavy, and lethal. No one could deny the Quantum Security Forces straightened out Pickup time.

He lay on his back, the sun hammering his face and hands. His neck and the prematurely thinning hair up top caught the brunt of it. The want for sleep overpowered, but wouldn’t last. He shook both galoshes, feet sizzling within. Time to get out of the light, get vertical. Before food, before drink, he required shade.

Cadge peeled off of the warm, rusted scrollwork. The wrought iron had branded a floral pattern into both cheeks—tossing and turning. His mouth tasted of dry wool; the gap where his front tooth once sat whistled as he gasped for a draft of cool air.

But he didn’t move, even as the heat already pressed like he was a raw material grinding through the gears of the machine. If he remained stationary, he’d bake directly into the pavement, or so he said. He scrambled up on bird-thin legs, ribs counting themselves through a threadbare hoodie. His shadow stretched across the concrete in a spindly, pathetic silhouette.

Straight to the warehouses, wobbling through the dead-air heat of the South Loop high-rises giving free shade like a handout. Every breath scorched his lips. There, the Hensock &Wineproof Partners distribution center jammed into a row of similar buildings—a concrete bunker of blessed, refrigerated coolness.

He slumped into the deep purple shade of the rear loading dock. The air smelled of ozone and recycled water.

“You’re late, Cadge. Core temp climbing.”

The loading dock’s voice—a low, electronic vibrato—shook any wall-mounted sensors in need of tightening. The loading dock knew the salt content of his sweat. And told him to drink more water. He counted this machine as the only friend he had. The only one who helped. The only one who didn’t want to eat his shoes.

The wall monitor spoke the truth. He was late. “Thirsty,” Cadge wheezed.

“Authorization recognized. External cooling mist engaged,” the dock replied. A fine vapor hissed from the vents, settling on his skin like a miracle. “Local food bank 4-B distributes soy-nutrient bars until 0900. Leave now to avoid the high-noon UV spikes. You need calories, Cadge. Muscle mass sits at critical.”

Soy bars. Better than the void. He pulled off the hoodie that protected him from the sun everywhere he travelled. Barechested, Cadge absorbed the mist through his pores, or so he told the dock. He would stay here for the rest of the day, braced for hunger to avoid the heat. Just as the heavy steel door groaned open.

A woman stepped out, and the dock fell silent. Sebring Brawley emerged as a vision from another world. Her clothes—a crisp, impossible white—featured a tailored cut that ignored the humidity. She smelled of expensive soap and the delivery trucks dropping scents off at the loading docks, which explained a lot.

She studied Cadge, her eyes scanning his missing tooth and the trembling of his hands with clinical, sharp interest. Not disgust. Not pity. Just... curiosity.

“You possess a fascinating geometry, don’t you?” Her voice sounded melodic, cool as a marble floor. “The way hunger and heat has sculpted you.”

Cadge blinked, his brain lagging behind her high-gloss vocabulary. “I’m just here until you stop watering the hot concrete, lady. Then I’ll be off. Going to brunch at the food bank.” He slapped his ribs.

“I’m Sebring. And I’m searching for a specific kind of perspective,” she said, tilting her head to capture the light on his ribs. “The art industry starves for authenticity, Cadge. How would you like to become more than a shadow in a warehouse?”