I’m on blood duty again. I duck my head against the frigid wind and tighten my grip on the metal handle of my cart, moving slowly to protect its fragile cargo. Also because moving slowly is my only option in two feet of snow.

  Behind me, the train cars have begun turning out the first reluctant passengers. There’s a shout, a groan, the scrape of a heavy pallet, the anemic starting splutter of our work for the day.

  The station looks warm and brightly lit. A crowd has begun to form inside, their collective breath fogging the windows. The locals have turned up early and in force, anxious to finish their contributions so they can collect their stipends and go home. A woman near the door catches sight of me struggling to drag my cart across the snow-laden platform and holds the station door open for me.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, leaning on the cart handle to lift its front wheels over the threshold.

  “You should have come yesterday,” she says. “At least the sun was out for a bit.”

  I would shrug and make some polite small talk about the sanctity of the train schedule, but she’s already turned away from me, seeking refuge from the cold in the press of bodies as the door swings shut behind us.

  The station is not warm, it turns out. Just brightly lit. Not even the heat of all these bodies can dispel the bone-deep cold. I hate Red Hollows Station in the winter.

  I make my way across the foyer to a set of double doors and turn, pushing them open with my back as I head backwards down the hall.

  At the other end I back through another door and pull the cart into the clinic, where at last the heaters have been activated. Hard to draw blood that’s been frozen in the veins after all.

  This room is smaller than the foyer, accommodating a dozen makeshift blood contribution stations, most already manned by my fellow passengers, through which we will rotate the gathered Red Hollows citizens over the course of the day.

  The local doctor is already here. He waves me over and hands me a slate without comment, the screen already flickering to life.

  A glance tells me it’s going to be a long day; there are over 1,000 names on the list. Best get to it, I suppose. I distribute the supplies from my cart to each station —needles, vials, tourniquets, foam bandages —and stow the cart out of the way before taking up my post at the door.

  “Ready?” I ask the room at large. I’m answered by the sounds of my colleagues shuffling things around their workstations and a few assenting grunts. Good enough. I position myself just inside the door to avoid as much of the draft its opening will usher in as possible, nudge it open with my foot, and call the first name.

  I’m not allowed to do the actual blood draws because I am mostly shit at it. Some people use mods to steady their hands and guide them to a vein, but I’ve never been able to get the hang of it. If anything, the mods make it worse. Instead, I will spend the day clutching my slate and summoning citizens. I will direct each to an open station, mark the station number and operator down on my screen, and move on. Some of them like to make small talk about the weather or the recent improvements to the tracks. Some simply smile and nod, some ignore me completely. I prefer these last.

  An old woman catches my eye from across the room, her body radiating a tension that singles her out. Where her companions shuffle forward in line with the bored resignation of regular victims of bureaucracy, she moves as if every step poses a new threat. The way her eyes dart around the room, her fingers digging into her arms folded across her chest in a protective hug, I wonder if she’s had a bad experience with contributions in the past. I hope my own incompetence during a past visit is not the cause of her trepidation. When, for a half a second, her eyes connect with mine, I flash her a reassuring smile before returning to my list.

  I catch a few more glimpses of her over the next two hours, an anxious presence hovering around the edges of the dwindling crowd.

  “Rahnia Seeri” I call, and a shivering woman in a threadbare coat shuffles toward me. I point to Station 7. As she starts off in that direction, I stop her with a light touch to her arm. “When you’re done, go through the back door and talk to the man with red hair. Tell him Tali sent you. We’ve got some extra coats and sweaters this cycle, he should be able to spare you one.”

  She nods her thanks and turns away again. I go back to my list.

  “Paulie Tawarn?”

  It’s the old woman. The anxious one. Now that I see her up close, it’s clear her problem is not a fear of needles.

  I should have seen it even from a distance: the sunken eyes and gray glint of her skin, the spiny ridges on her eyelids and lips, some of them seeping a grey viscous fluid. Even the way she walks, as if her shoes are made of delicate glass which she might crack at any second.

  She’s not nervous. She’s utterly terrified, and with good reason. If we take her blood, it could hasten the advance of her disease.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Instinctively, I reach out a hand, then immediately draw it back. I want to touch her shoulder to offer some comfort, but my touch would only cause her pain.

  “Matriya, you don’t need to be here,” I tell her gently, using the Koltari word for mother in a show of respect. “At this stage…”

  “I have to!” She shakes her head vehemently, eyes wide and frantic.

  “No,” I try again. “It’s alright, you don’t have to.”

  She only wags her head more desperately, not understanding.

  “What’s the matter, Tali?” Charlie asks from behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “She’s late-stage Pall. I’m trying to tell her she doesn’t have to contribute anymore.”

  His eyes flick from me to the old woman and back again. His expression tells me he understands, but there’s something else there. A kind of heaviness, I think.

  He places a gentle hand on her arm. “It’s alright, mother,” he says with a warm smile. “If you need to, there’s room enough for your blood.”

  What?

  “Wait, Charlie,” I interject. “She’s late-stage Pall. She’s exempt!”

  Can he not see how petrified she is?

  He turns to face me, speaking in a low voice. “She’s not afraid you’ll make her. She’s afraid you won’t let her. She needs the money.”

  “But…” I protest, gesturing at the trembling woman. It could kill her, and he knows it. Again, I glimpse a flash of sadness in his eyes.

  “It’s not our choice to make for her.” His tone says this is the end of the discussion. Before I can protest further he ushers her past me, his arm around her frail waist for support.

  I consider following him but think better of it. There’s not much pretense of formality between Charlie and me, but he’s still the Conductor and he won’t thank me for arguing with him in front of all of Red Hollows Station.

  I watch them for a few more seconds, then turn back to my slate, which has begun flashing red to remind me it’s still active.

  It’s well past dark when we finally wrap things up for the day. Most of the citizens have gone home while we remained to pack and load our equipment and the fresh vials of blood. I’m exhausted and freezing and can think of nothing but a hot shower in my cabin.

  Almost nothing.

  The face of the terrified old woman has lingered in my mind long past when it ought to have faded into the business of the day. I caught myself scanning the crowd several times, trying to catch a glimpse of her, but to no avail. I’m not sure what seeing her again would have done for me—maybe I was hoping to see some kind of relief in her face after the blood draw was done.

  I need to find Charlie before I call it a night, I decide. I know myself—If I don’t talk to him about the old woman while the topic is fresh, it will get absorbed into a slurry of a thousand other concerns, and lose the sting of importance.

  As I make my last trip through the snow, now packed tight beneath the tread of a thousand feet throughout the day, the sound of footsteps tells me Sakari is half-running to catch up.

  “I truly hate this place in the winter,” she says without preamble as her pace slows to match mine.

  I nod my agreement. “Imagine having to live here.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Hey, have you seen Charlie?” I ask. He’s usually around during wrap-up but he’s been scarce today.

  “Uh, yeah, a while ago. He was talking to Nevalya somewhere.”

  “Of course he was.” The words escape my lips before I can stop them. I don’t like to let my annoyance with Nevalya’s existence show so readily, especially since I know Sakari doesn’t share it.

  “Oh come on,” my roommate says, a little defensive. “So he likes spending time with the most gorgeous woman ever to set foot on the Talavar. I don’t know why that bothers you so much.”

  “He can spend time with whoever he wants. I just need to talk to him, that’s all.”

  “Uh huh.” Sakari’s not buying my deflection, but I’m too cold and cranky to care. She skips ahead of me and hops up the train steps to open the door for both of us. I don’t know how she can have so much energy at the end of a station visit. I have none.

  Inside, we stamp the snow off our shoes and I grimace, my toes stinging from the impact. Carlisle, the front-end chef, offers us both a steaming cup of something as we pass his counter, which is the main reason we entered this car instead of going straight to our quarters.

  “Bless you,” Sakari tells him, and I follow her through the door at the car’s far end. The mug contains a hot, spicy broth that burns my tongue but feels like magic as it warms my insides.

  “Seriously, though,” Sakari says, and I realize my attempt to drop the subject didn’t take. “Why do you hate her so much?”

  I glance around the empty corridor and keep my voice low when I answer.

  “I don’t hate her. I just don’t like her. I don’t have to like everyone.”

  Sakari slides open the door to the cabin we share and gestures for me to enter ahead of her. I think she just wants to make sure I can see her exaggerated eye roll.

  “Fine,” she says. “Why do you dislike her so much? She’s not overly friendly, I’ll give you that, but neither are you. Is it just because she’s so taken with Charlie? Or…” she waggles her eyebrows suggestively, “because he doesn’t mind the attention?”

  “Oh please. You know it’s not like that.” I’ve known Charlie for over a decade, and while he’s filled plenty of roles in my life—protector, stand-in parent, confidante, friend—romantic prospect has never been one on the list.

  “It’s just… who even is she? It doesn’t seem weird to you that this mysterious stranger showed up out of nowhere, volunteering for the Talavar, which nobody does without a reason, and immediately starts batting her eyelashes at the conductor?”

  Sakari shrugs. “So you think she’s what… a spy? For whom? It’s not like we’re at war.”

  I shrug right back at her. “I don’t know. It just seems weird. Plus she’s got that little henchman or whatever he is, following her around like a puppy.”

  “Oh, Lucas. Yeah that is kind of weird,” Sakari says. “Or it would be if she wasn’t…you know…stunning. Honestly if that’s what she looks like as a woman, I’m not surprised she went that route. What’s really weird is that there aren’t more sad little dudes following her everywhere she goes.”

  “Oh yeah?” I can’t help but laugh. “Are you one of the would-be sad little dudes?”

  “No, I have dignity,” Sakari says. “I can acknowledge a perfect woman without trying to get her in bed.”

  The truth is, I can’t articulate what bothers me about the woman. I just get a cold feeling in my gut every time I see her. I’m aware, however, that the more I try to make anyone else see it, the more unhinged I sound so I try to keep my voice light. “Yeah well, keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t trust anyone with hair that shiny.”

  “If you insist,” Sakari says with a mock sigh. “I will carefully watch her possibly evil hair. You want the first shower?”

  “I really, really do,” I reply gratefully.