(Luke, 21)

The Head Cashier's calling again, probably to complain about the number of carts on the lot. Maybe if she'd force the other lot associates to do their job, it wouldn't be as bad.

"Hello?" I answer the call.

"You need to get outside and start bringing carts in," she says almost immediately.

I look up at the sun, then around at all the cars around me, then the line of carts in front of me.

"That's funny," I say. "I thought I was outside. Did you mean to call Cody or Chris? Neither of them have been out here in over two hours."

"I don't need your attitude," she says. "And they're both busy-"

I hang up. I'm tired of this. I call the store manager. Going to the regular managers hasn't worked, so it's time to take it up a step. Then again, I've already talked to him about it several times and called District HR, who never responded to my voicemail. At this point, I could probably get a lawyer and have them sort things out.

"What's up, Luke?"

"Remember how I told you that Erica's been harassing me?" I ask as I slam another cart into the line. That's seven, the maximum I should do manually, even if I can handle more. "She just called me to tell me to go outside and bring carts in. Which I've been doing nonstop for roughly three hours. I haven't seen either of the other lot associates out here in the last two hours, and when they were out here two hours ago, they were loading a car together for something that I could've done by myself in half the time. I did hang up on her once she snapped at me for letting her know I was outside and asking if she'd meant to call one of them since they hadn't been out here in two hours, and-hold on."

I chase after a cart that had begun rolling towards a car, then pull it and move it into the nearest corral.

"Also," I say. "Can we please get bumps for the cart corrals? It's windy, and I've had to chase down something like twenty carts in the last hour because our parking lot is sloped with the corrals."

"I've already talked to Tom about that," he snorts. "He said corporate won't approve of it because no one else has an issue, so we're probably exaggerating."

I look at the slope, then shake my head. Tom is our district manager.

"He can access our security cameras, right?" I ask. "Have him forward the lot's video for my shift to them. Oh, and mention when he looks at it to see proof that there are three lot associates here right now."

"I'll do that," he says. "And I'll talk with Erica, too. You said you've been out there for three hours, nonstop?"

"Yeah," I nod. "When you stopped me an hour ago, I was supposed to go on break."

"And you haven't yet?"

"Nope," I respond. "Erica's put their lunches and breaks over mine. I'm off in an hour, so now she'll say it's too late to go on break. And I am not going to catch that cart in time. Hey, a customer's car is about to-got hit."

I walk over to the car and inspect it.

"Pretty fancy car, too," I comment. "Not sure the type, don't really care, it's got some cart scratches and a busted taillight."

"Can you give me the license?" He asks, and I do as my phone beeps. "Thanks."

"Lloyd's calling me," I tell him as I pull the cart away and bring it to the nearest cart corral. "Erica probably complained to him."

"Tell him that you just talked with me," he says. "And that he needs to talk with me about it. It's like I'm running a fucking kindergarten here."

"Easy solution is to fire her and the others," I say.

"The hard part of that is finding replacements," he tells me. "And I can't just fire someone for-"

"Abuse of power?" I offer as I approach my line of carts again, then begin slowly pushing them so I can hear him. "Workplace harassment? Emotional abuse of the 'inferior' associates. Discrimination? You do realize I'm trained in more areas than her and know how to do her job? And that I've worked here longer, right?"

"What all are the places you can do?" He asks. "And are you pushing the carts while on the phone?"

"The jobs needs getting done," I tell him. "If I move slowly, I can still hear you."

Like, casual walking. The walking speed of normal people. My normal rate of pushing carts makes them too loud as they rattle against each other and over the asphalt of the parking lot.

"As for the things I can do," I say. "I'm obviously a lot associate who actually does their job, so I can handle carts and loading. I can also do special orders on the sheds we have out here on the lot."

"You do more of those than any other associate," he says. "And are mostly self-taught."

"Yeah," I nod. "I'm also knowledgeable about some product in nearly every department, though I'm mostly hopeless in electrical and plumbing, can do cashiering, returns, and special services, know how to do the job of the head cashiers, can mix paint, and am being trained in Flooring, where I know how to cut vinyl and carpeting and have basic knowledge in the-hold on, about to bump while entering the store."

The carts rattle too loudly to hear as I push the carts inside and into the vestibule at the front door, then I run them into the line closest to the inside doors.

"And have basic knowledge in the hardwood and laminate flooring," I finish as I walk back outside. "Anyway, I should probably get back to work. With it being just me outside, I have to keep track of the carts."

"See the hot dogs?" He asks, and I turn and look at the tent set up. Not a camping tent, but the kind one might see at a festival. They're giving away free hot dogs and water to customers. "Go ahead and get one and take fifteen. Don't answer any calls, and if someone says something, tell them to talk to me. You know how to grill hot dogs, right? Jerry needs a break, take over for him."

"Yes, sir," I say, then he hangs up. My phone rings again, Lloyd's been trying to reach me hard and calling as soon as it ends. I answer as I walk back to the tent. "Sorry, sir, was on the phone with Nick."

"I guess he's done with his meeting," Lloyd comments. Nick had a meeting? On a Saturday? "Hey, the garden cashiers said that you've been busting your butt off for the last three hours, and Jerry's in need of a break. Could you go cover for him?"

Sarah's one of the friendly cashiers, I'm not surprised she probably expressed concern, she knows how hard it is for me to be in this sun nonstop. It's probably technically an OSHA violation, since we're at over a hundred with the heat index factor and I could actually end up in the hospital.

"Nick just told me the same thing," I chuckle as I reach the tent. "Not about the garden cashiers, but about covering for Jerry. Hey, Jerry. The managers are teaming up on me to tell me to give you a fifteen-minute break."

Lloyd hangs up, and I take over for Jerry, who immediately heads inside. He's probably exhausted from the heat, and he's been in shade. For the next fifteen minutes, I grill, and as soon as Jerry returns, I make my way back to the cart corrals, only to spot someone by the sheds. Potential multi-thousand dollar sale, no one else around?

I go over to the sheds. If the customer's interested and I convince them to buy over something cheaper or a competitor, it'll help our sales and get them a good shed. The ones we sell here are among the best on the market, even the wooden ones.

"Hello," I greet them with a smile. "Are you interested in purchasing a shed?"

"Yes," the customer nods. "I just moved into the area, and the shed we have is old and in need of replacing."

"They do old shed removal," I say. "For the price of one dollar per square foot of the floor space if it's wooden, so if it's an eight-by-ten, which is standard in a lot of places, that would be eighty dollars. As long as it's empty, they'll tear it down and remove it."

"Okay," he says. "How much is delivery and installation of the new shed?"

"With these ones, it's included in the pricing," I answer. "That includes the materials, the delivery, and the installation. You pick out what features you want, we set up the order, add tax, and that's that. They'll then contact you to fine-tune the shed's design, such as where the door is to be located, windows, shelving, and all that. You do need to have a spot that's level for the shed. If you get any of the K-series sheds, it comes with a wooden foundation, as you can see on the shed there," I point at the shed to our left. "While the T-Series and S-Series, the rest of the sheds, come with this metal foundation.

"It's made of hot-dipped galvanized steel," I continue. "And is guaranteed for thirty years. The walls of all the sheds are made of an environmentally-safe treated wood that's guaranteed by the manufacturer and not the shed company against rot, roach, mold, and so on for fifty years, while the shingles have a thirty-year warranty against up to sixty-mile an hour winds. Those are all included in the price as well. You can also upgrade the floor at two dollars per square foot for a more wear-resistant one, and the shingles for more durability and a higher wind rating for the same."

We discuss the sheds for almost fifteen minutes, and my phone rings several times during this. I ignore it, though, as the managers place priority on customers at the sheds for me and tell me to ignore all other things when doing a shed sale, even if it's only a potential.

"Also," I gesture to the sign stapled to the shed we're standing in front of. I can tell the customer's still on-the-fence about buying the shed. "Right now, the manufacturer is running a deal where any T-Series or S-Series shed will be painted by them for free. This is done off-site, with only touch-up work done after they finish assembling it. If the shed is painted within thirty days of its installation date, it has a five-year warranty, so if you get one of these sheds and have them paint it with this deal, you'll already have the warranty and not have to pay a penny for the shed."

"How much is the paint normally?" He asks.

"If you're doing it yourself, using the same paint as them?" I ask. "Depends on if you use the same color for the whole thing or not. They typically do two colors, one for the sides, one for the trim. They use a high-quality outdoor paint. For this shed here, it would cost an extra hundred and forty dollars. You mentioned you wanted a ten-by-twelve shed, for that in this series, it would be an extra two hundred. Again, it's a high-quality outdoor paint, done at the warehouse. The pieces aren't assembled, so even under the trim will be painted."

"Alright," he says. "I'll go with that, then."

"Alright," I smile. "If you'd like to purchase now, we can do that now, if you'd like a quote, we can set that up as well. Quotes on the sheds are good for one week, so if, for some reason, the price increases – which is pretty rare – in the next week, and you decide you want the quoted shed before the quote expires, then you'll get it at the quoted price."

"Okay," he says. "Let's do that."

I take him inside, and we go through the process of setting up the shed. When I first started doing these, it took me almost an hour to do less, and I had to call the area rep for the sheds for help. Now, I can do a full order like his in around twenty minutes and advertise our store credit card to him, which he decides to apply for.

Once the shed order is put through, I run him through the credit card application, and he's approved. Most of the people who buy the sheds are approved for the card as well, I've learned, though not all of them actually apply for it, so my pool isn't as big as it probably could be. Understandable, I don't want a credit card, myself. The selling point of it for him was the fact that, because of the cost of the shed, if he puts the full balance on the card, he'll have zero interest for two years due to a current promotion for new accounts.

Since his card was approved, I'm able to give him a twenty-dollar discount on the shed, so I apply that, then run the purchase for him and print up his receipt and the order pages.

"Okay," I say, taking the pages from the printer and stapling them together, before putting it through the receipt's printer to have information stamped onto it. "This here is your receipt, these spots here show what you ordered. This is the total, ignore this number, it's… I'm not sure what it is, but it's not what you paid – this here is what you paid, and as you can see by adding the tax to the subtotal, that number doesn't actually do anything."

"It's zero," he chuckles.

"Yeah," I nod. "It's zero, don't ask me why it exists. Sometimes, it says a penny or two, with a new line appearing beneath it that subtracts that. Anyway, this back page here, these are the things you should know about the shed, here's a number to call if you have any further questions, and this half of the page shows you what you need before the shed can be installed, which we went over before. The stuff like needing eight-foot clearance to reach the spot, at least two feet of space on each side of the build location, no more than half of an inch grade for where it's going to be, and so on."

"Thank you," he says. "And you said I should be called in the next few days?"

"Yes," I nod. "Eva said they usually call within a day, though since tomorrow's Sunday, chances are that they'll call either Monday or Tuesday instead. Around this time of year, the installations usually take between three and four weeks, though it may take up to six, and with a shed the size of the one you bought, it shouldn't take them more than a single day's work – eight hours – to assemble the shed on-site."

"Thank you," he says again. "Have a good day, Luke."

"You as well, sir," I tell him, and he leaves. My phone's ringing, so I answer it. "Hey, it's time for me to go."

"You need to go back out there and get back to work," Erica says.

This is starting to get really old.

"I did just work," I say. "And I'm supposed to be off. Did you get approval from management for me to stay over? You know they're picky about associates having more time on the clock than they're scheduled."

"I don't need your attitude."

"You sure give it out plenty," I snap. "Stop treating me like a little kid who has no rights. I'm off work, you can't stop me from leaving. Get one of the other lot associates to actually do their job for once. You know, one of the ones who didn't spend four and a half hours in dangerously high temps without a single break? Yeah, one of them, not the person who's only had a small amount of time to not risk being hospitalized for heat stroke."

I hang up and turn around to find myself facing Nick, the store manager, standing with Tom, the district manager, along with Tracy, our district HR manager.

"Uh…" Oops?

"Relax, Luke," Nick chuckles. "When you called me earlier, the three of us were in a meeting regarding you."

"That doesn't make me relaxed at all," I feel my anxiety rising. I was pretty relaxed until now, but the moment my anxiety starts rising, things usually take a bad turn. "I mean, this is your boss and another big-shot."

"We were watching you on the cameras," Tracy says as Nick's phone rings. Probably Erica. "I came here because of the call you made the other day."

Right, I made a call to District HR, as I'm allowed to, due to the constant abuse I'm facing here. They're the ones who handle it once the store level doesn't work.

"Are you okay?" Tom asks, and he looks genuinely concerned. "Several times while you were with that customer, you were swaying on your feet, and you look ready to drop, like you're exhausted."

"Probably heat exhaustion," I shrug. "I'm used to it, and I was only able to rehydrate on the break Nick sent me on. Usually, I try to refill my waterbottle once it starts getting empty or as soon as it does, but it just wasn't possible if I wanted to keep the carts from hitting cars and keep carts inside for customers."

Which I kind of neglected to deal with the shed customer, but that gave me a much-needed rest, even if I still need to rehydrate.

"I'll be fine once I get home," I tell him. "A few hours of rest and hydration, and I'll be fine. And sorry about the snapping, I know I shouldn't have, but after the heat hits me for awhile, I tend to react without thinking, even if I've gotten a little rest."

"Go home and get some rest," Tom tells me. "We've heard and seen enough to make a decision."

The fact that they're not telling me makes me kind of suspicious.

"Not against you," Nick tells me. "I can see that suspicious look in your eyes, it's not you. Go home and get some rest, Luke, you're not in trouble."

"Thank you, sir," I hang my phone up in the cradle behind the service desk, then head to the back to clock out and put my things away.

I'm a little bit dizzy, but that's normal. Since I take the bus, it's not a big deal, and that helps me to recover, as long as it's one of the good bus drivers. The good ones keep the AC turned up during the summer and the heat high during the winter.

After grabbing my stuff, I make my way outside and to the bus stop. If they're looking into it, have made a decision, and I'm not in trouble, then either nothing's happening, or changes are coming. The fact that they were actually watching me on the cameras means it's probably the latter, as they'd have seen I was outside by myself, despite there being two other lot associates there.

When the bus arrives, I board it and swipe my pass, then take a seat, glancing down the aisle to see if he's there. As always, he is. Kris Mueller, someone I went to high school with. Dark blond hair, light brown eyes, and a lean build. Not a scrawny, meatless build like mine, but not a muscular one. It's a nice build, and I wish I had it.

Once I can afford to work out and eat better, I'll probably start doing so. That relies on me finding a second job, though. I'm not sure what Kris does for a living, or if he's working yet. I just know that I see him at the back of the bus most days, on the same ride I'm usually on. One day, I'll probably try striking up a conversation with him. We were never in the same social circles, though, so I'm not really sure what to say. I've never been one for social interactions.

A few stops later, a girl around our age boards the bus. She's dressed in black pants, sneakers, and a pink shirt, no purse. She sits across from me and smiles. Her hair is long and golden, and her light blue eyes light up with her smile.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," I respond.

"Do you know how long it'll take to reach the library from here?" She asks.

Her accent is a little odd, though I don't know how to describe it.

"Around fifteen to twenty minutes," I nod. "We don't go by it, though. There are two options – the first is getting off at the transit center, which is just a small building with a few spots for buses to pull up, then away. It's easy to spot, and there are a couple of bars behind it. Then, you wait until the next bus comes, but that won't be for about an hour after we arrive. That bus will take you straight past the library, and your only warning that you're nearing the library's stop will be a brown street sign. It's the stop in front of the post office, make sure to pull after we pass the stop before that, or you might miss it.

"As for the other option," I continue. "You can get off once we turn at the light after the transit center. You'll need to backtrack back to the street we'll turn off of, then walk down it in the opposite direction we'd come. Depending on how fast you walk, that takes seven to fifteen minutes from getting off the bus. The library sits behind the post office, you'll have to go down a street along the side of it."

"Thanks," she says. "You take the bus a lot?"

"Yeah," I answer. "To and from work, and to and from the library. I take the bus that goes by the library. Not to be rude, but I was curious where you're from? I don't recognize the accent."

"A long way away," she smiles. "I'm only visiting the area, and I enjoy checking the libraries anywhere I go. You never know what gems you might find."

"Yeah," I nod, tapping my backpack. "I need to return some books there, and will be stopping by. If you go the walking route, I can help you go. I need to catch the second bus, which only runs that direction once in the afternoon."

The other option is either walking for forty minutes down that road, or catching this bus again and taking it further down, then walking twenty minutes. The other bus will get me home sooner and with only a seven-minute walk from it to my house.

"Will you stop flirting with her?" A passenger I've never seen before asks. "You horny teens, thinking with only one thing."

I look at the woman. She's in her fifties, probably, and looks like a general bitch.

"How old do you think I am?" I ask.

"Sixteen, obviously," she says.

"I'm legally old enough to drink," I tell her. "I'm twenty-one. So you're wrong on me being a 'horny teen'. Two, I really am heading to the library, and had already planned on it before she got on the bus. I have a book on reserve in addition to three to return. And three, she's not my type, so even if I weren't already planning on visiting the library, I wouldn't be flirting with her."

The old lady humphs, and the girl smiles at me.

"What books are you returning?" She asks.

We discuss the books for a few minutes, but I stop when I feel danger nearby. I don't know why I can, but I've always had an instinct for it. Maybe it developed from living in an abusive household and being harassed my entire life, or maybe it's just how I am naturally. Either way, I have an unnerving sense that something bad is about to happen.

"What's wrong?" The girl asks as I look around, spotting the bus driver, who seems to be a little unconscious at the moment.

Oh. That's not good.

"Hey," I pull myself to my feet and start to walk to the driver, only for us to hit the curb as we go over an overpass and flip.

As the bus rolls down the hill we were just-barely by, I'm tossed around with the others on the bus, my body screaming with pain as glass cuts into it. The next thing I know, my vision is darkening, and I can see the girl. She's kneeling in front of me, and she doesn't look hurt.

I'm definitely dying, because I'm seeing things. She's not wearing the outfit she had before, but a flowing, black and pink dress, a golden crown atop her head. Yeah, definitely dying.

"It is as I predicted," she smiles, placing a hand on my chin and moving my head gently, giving me a good view of her. Oh, just let me die without the hallucinations, would you? "But this isn't the end of your tale, Lucas, even if it's the end of this part of it."

(Samuel, 64)

Standing at nearly fifteen feet in height, the ogre chief stares me down, unafraid. It's rare for something to make one of the great beasts scared, though it's facing me, so it should be. It doesn't know my reputation or abilities, however, even after I've slain the four ogres that came with it.

Large, smelly, and with green skin and nearly-blind eyes, ogres are a foul creature, and in the years since the War of Midlaris, they are the greatest inhuman threat to humans. They might be slow, but they are strong and tough. It takes a set of potent magical gear and a team of magicians and knights to fell them.

Or a slice of my fingers as I will a blade of force to cut through the beast's neck, the spell forming and triggering. The ogre's head falls to the ground behind the beast, rolling several feet before stopping. Only a moment later does the creature fall.

Now that the ogres are dead, I use my scan spell once more, to see if there are any others around. The reading an ogre gives through the spell is a slimy, rotten, disgusting one, large, and vaguely humanoid. I can sense the bodies of these five, though with their lives extinguished, their presences aren't as strong and fading quickly.

After extending my scan to encompass one hundred yards, I detect something, but not an ogre. It feels human, and powerful, but small. Stationary, with a light tone of discomfort.

Immediately, I walk in that direction. Someone must have been wounded by these things before I noticed them, and if they're that powerful that I can sense them, yet haven't begun healing themselves and have such a small presence, then it is likely they were caught off-guard and are dying.

It only takes me a few minutes to reach them as I enhance my physical speed, and what I find is a carriage with several mangled bodies. One man, two women. It's impossible at this point to identify them, with how badly the ogres hit them. The women were likely raped to death.

I look through the wreckage to attempt to find the source of that magical power, and locate a small bundle half-buried by the broken carriage. A baby, wrapped in clothes. He's sleeping peacefully, having no doubt exhausted himself crying after the ogres' attack. It is odd they left him alone during it, but depending on how long the rape occurred, the dumb beasts likely didn't hear his cries over the women's screams. He's quite the powerful little guy.

"It's okay, little one," I gently pick up the bundle and check him for injuries, mending a cut on his forehead. "Your mama and papa are dead, but I'll take care of you."