The Line Read Online Free PDF Page A

families retell “How I Met Your Father” stories.
    “I was at my wits’ end,” Vivian would say, when she was feeling particularly safe and secure. Those were the times when she took a moment to relax. She usually only did that on holidays, her work for Ms. Moore temporarily done, the few holiday bonus creds she earned safely transferred to Rachel’s education account. She had time then to take a long, warm bath, or enjoy a glass of wine. Then she would snuggle into the old afghan on the couch, pat the spot next to her to invite Rachel to come snuggle too, and tell her the story about coming to The Property.
    “I had no idea how we were going to eat the next day,” she would say, “let alone pay the rent, which was a week and a half overdue. I was so afraid, Rachel. It seemed like I had been desperate for so long, though it had been only a few days since I got the letter about your dad.”
    Rachel had seen that letter too. It was in the portfolio along with the rest of the memories Vivian kept. It wasn’t a printout of a netcomm. It was a real letter, which looked very official, with the blue U.S. seal impressed into the paper. It still said her father was dead no matter how many times Rachel read it.
    “What did you do, Mom?” Rachel didn’t need to ask; she knew the story by heart. But there was something about the ceremony of it, snuggling together on the couch, asking the same questions, hearing the same answers, that comforted her. She thought it comforted Vivian, too.
    “I was looking in the Domestics section for jobs, since I didn’t really have any other skills.” Vivian ruffled Rachel’s hair. “When you go to college, we’re going to be sure you take more than art history classes. And that you get your degree before you fall in love with some man and marry him.” She laughed.
    Rachel smiled, but she said nothing. She wasn’t going to fall in love. If love took the light from your eyes, the way it had from Vivian’s, Rachel wanted nothing to do with it.
    “I thought I could clean and do shopping for someone. So the Domestics section it was. The ads all wanted someone to come in once a week, maybe twice a week, but that wouldn’t work for us. I had nobody to leave you with, and none of those jobs paid enough to cover a place of our own anyway. I was sure I would have to register for the general Labor Pool. We would have ended up in a community residence. Oh, Rachel. When I think of what could have happened! Then I saw Ms. Moore’s ad.”
    This was the place in the story where Vivian always took out the printout, unfolding it and smoothing its wrinkled surface carefully. It looked like this:
    LIVE-IN HELP REQUIRED
    Domestic for cleaning, meals, errands, and laundry. Private quarters, board provided, small monthly compensation. Must be hardworking, polite, and neat. No college students need apply. Contact Ms. Elizabeth Moore, 1218 West Meeky Road, vocall 48912706. Interviews will be held Tuesday, September 10, between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m.
    “I was a bit nervous about the job being so far away from anything. I mean, we’re practically in the middle of nowhere,” said Vivian. “But once I actually saw the place, it looked perfect—way out here where nobody would bother us. I knew we would be safe here.”
    Rachel thought she knew what her mom meant. It was good to be out in the country. Things weren’t so great anywhere in the U.S., but the cities were the worst, especially since the government passed the New Rights Bill.
    The New Rights Bill was, according to Vivian, a travesty. Rachel agreed, since she had actually seen a copy of the old bill, the original one from before all the new amendments were added. Rachel didn’t know why Vivian had a copy; possessing one became a crime once the New Rights Bill went into effect. It was not kept in the portfolio. Too dangerous, according to Vivian, and she wouldn’t tell Rachel where she kept it. But she did show it to Rachel one evening during their