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here.”
    He walked out ahead of me, and we climbed up the thirty plus feet to the catwalk that spanned the space between containers. The early morning fog had condensed to a slippery layer of saltwater that made every step dangerous.
    When the cargo was stacked high enough, you could see so far it felt as if you could just reach out and touch the horizon. I felt like a meaningless speck of dust standing on the giant puzzle of containers. An ocean breeze carried the harsh smell of oil and sulfur over the busy port. I’d actually grown to like the smell.
    Bill and I worked at opposite ends using our bars to loosen the turnbuckles that locked the lashing bars into place. We would spend the day doing the exact same work, but he would earn three times the wages. The only way to move up on the pay scale was to gather hours and earn an identification card. But gathering hours had not been easy. I was glad to have three days of steady work ahead of me.
    When the weather was decent like today, it wasn’t altogether awful working as a lasher. But when a storm of rain and wind blew through the port, it seemed that every step could be your last. The first few times I’d climbed up to the catwalk, I’d realized that I had more than a casual fear of heights. It had taken me months to get over it, but I still avoided looking straight down. From up top, the narrow gaps of deck that could be seen between the stacks looked miles away. It wasn’t a job that you could daydream or get lost in your thoughts on, and today, I was grateful to have my mind occupied.
    My gloves were never enough protection from the rough, rusty lashing bar, and within an hour I could feel painful blisters forming on my palms. A week hanging out at the beach had turned me soft, and I was going to feel the work tonight. Still, I couldn’t skip another workout at Tank’s or pretty soon, my pillowy pirate friend would be able to take me down.
    Bill had an irritating habit of singing old rock and roll songs, loud and off key, while he worked. I pulled the beanie down over my ears, but it did nothing to drown out the noise.
    A few bars into ‘Crazy Train’ he stopped his squawking and yelled to me across the top of the container. “Did I tell you that I’m proposing to my little lady this weekend?”
    I’d seen pictures of his little lady and she was neither little nor a lady, but it seemed that everyone, even some dick who called himself Blackbeard and referred to his girlfriend as a little lady, had someone. My state of loneliness had really gotten to me since Nix and Clutch had found serious girlfriends. I could ease some of the feelings of destitution by hanging out with Barrett. Chicks flocked to him and we’d had some ridiculously good times together, but now that Cassie was moving to New York, I felt the loneliness deep down in my bones.
    “That’s great,” I said unenthusiastically.
    “Yep, bought a nice big rock. Going to propose to her down at our favorite biker bar.”
    “Sounds sweet— like her.” The guy never caught on to my sarcasm, which almost took the fun out of it.
    Bill lifted his round, ruddy face to the sky and bellowed out another line of a song, but I wasn’t completely sure what the hell it was. As he crowed out some lyrics, he swung his lashing bar back around. It threw him slightly off balance, and his foot moved to the edge of the container and slid out from under him. I raced across to his side. My lashing bar flew out of my hand as I grabbed hold of his arm. I yanked him back with all my strength. His bar slammed down on my hand, and I sucked in a breath of pain. We landed hard on the top of the container but not nearly as hard as he would have landed thirty feet below.
    My lashing bar clanged against the containers on its plummet down to the deck. Bill’s face was sheet white as he lay like a landed fish gasping for air. I held my throbbing hand against me as I pushed to my feet. The knuckles were already swelling as I