I'm not saying the money made it worth it, but it did keep me fed.

The kind of job I had, hell, the kind of place we worked, was the sort of thing you didn't exactly talk about at family gatherings.

I never brought it up with my brother when he called, didn't post about it, didn't take photos.

I wasn't even allowed to keep a journal, not a real one anyway.

Only the pocket logs they issued, the kind where every page was marked, confidential in bright red.

And even then, we weren't supposed to write anything more detailed than

shift notes and tool sign-outs. But if you're the type who's ever stared down the barrel

of a second eviction notice, I wondered if that noise in the ceiling meant you couldn't afford

the exterminator again. You'll understand why I took the job.

I got the call through someone who knew someone.

A guy I had done contract rigging work with out in Arizona.

He didn't tell me what the job was.

Just that it paid triple and they needed people who could keep their heads down.

The phone call was short.

I didn't even give a formal yes.

Just silence long enough for him to say,

All right, I'll pass that on.

Two days later, I got a message on my old work email that was still connected to my phone.

I hadn't used it in years.

There was no subject line, no send a list, just a set of coordinates, a time and instructions

to bring ID and steel toe boots.

It felt off, every part of it.

...