“I heard you were planning on moving to another sector,” Hank said, looking out over the empty marina. “Did you know this place used to be full of boats?”
“Boats?” Sharon asked. “Why would it be filled with boats?” She rested her hands on the bar rail and looked down at the water below. “Oh, like shipping boats. I remember hearing about those in school. It was how they used to send things from one continent to another.”
Hank turned and looked at her. She was young, mid-twenties, attractive, and athletic. Just like most women her age. “No, these were personal boats. Some were where people lived, others were for taking out on the ocean to get away from everything.”
“Oh,” she continued to stare at the water but he could tell she didn’t understand. It had been a long time since anyone had seen a yacht or a sailboat and even longer since anyone had owned one. It was all before her lifetime.
“So about you moving,” Hank brought the conversation back to point. “You tired of living in Blue Hill?”
She chuckled then shrugged. “I guess. They found a position for me in Q-1788-R-C. Some place called Chillicothe.”
“The agency couldn’t find something for you here?”
“I put in the request,” she said. “Of course, moving was an issue. They had to make sure there was lodging that was an adequate distance from the job. There was a problem with the land in the immediate vicinity so they couldn’t construct housing nearby. Most of the area is barren. I took a few trips out there and they have short-distance transport hubs. Nothing beyond Cincinnati.”
“Hmm,” Hank murmured. “From there you can go anywhere. That’s only two, maybe three hops from here. We could still meet up from time to time.”
She smiled at him and patted his arm. “Of course we could. I’ll probably spend some time getting to know the area but we can get together after that.”
“When do you leave?” Hank asked.
Sharon looked at the sky and let out a sigh, “I’m not sure. They can open a position and get me housing, but they have to wait for authorization from the Census Bureau. No one takes their time like they do. I remember when Sylvia requested to go to Reno. Everything was set up and she was waiting for authorization.” She shook her head. “Out of nowhere, they decided to move her to DA-1809-RHI. Some place called Anaconda. I remember it because she said she was glad she didn’t have ophidiophobia.”
“I’m guessing that’s a fear of snakes,” Hank said.
“Yeah,” Sharon laughed, “you guessed it faster than I did. I had to look it up.”
“Her profession was societal psychiatry wasn’t it?”
“One of the rarest professions. She works with the Clinic and does a lot of traveling. At least she did the last time we talked. That was two years ago. We lost touch.”
“Well,” Hank said as he put his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s not let that happen to us.”
“We won’t,” Sharon turned her head and looked up at him. “You need to shave. Your gray is showing.”
Hank ran his hand over his whiskers and chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
For a while, they stared out across the water. It was a clear day with a slight breeze teasing the surface. The afternoon sun gave them just enough warmth to forget the summer season had ended a few weeks ago. Spring was supposed to be the time for changes, not the fall. But, as the leaves were leaving the trees, Sharon would be leaving him. He knew deep down they would lose touch. She’d find someone in Chillicothe and he would be a distant memory. He was old enough to remember when relationships were meant to last, but still young enough to accept being able to let go.
“You could always come with me,” Sharon said.
Hank shook his head, “As much as I’d like that, I’ve already been given my permanence assignment. I’m stuck where I am until my days at the Clinic.”
“That’s not for another twenty years if things go well.” She looked at him, confused.
“True, but a person with my skillsets is hard to find and even harder to place. There wouldn’t be a place for me in Chalchiuhtlicue.”
“Chillicothe,” she corrected. “You could do something else.”
“I could do a lot of something elses,” he said. “Remember, I grew up in a time when you had to learn a lot of different skills. But you know how difficult it is to change professions. Your generation had yours all set up before you got out of school. Mine,” he shrugged, “we had to be maneuvered, tested, squeezed, and slotted into new positions as they cut out old ones.”
Sharon chuckled, “Now I know you’re being funny. Everyone has a position after school. It’s the way it’s always been done.”
There was no point in trying to explain it to her. History itself had been rewritten or deleted. The major conflicts were hidden away as ancient propaganda promoting inequality. Personal struggles were laughed at as someone trying to get attention. That itself was a violation. His was the last generation that would know firsthand what things were like.
“Anyway, I still have to wait for authorization,” Sharon said after a long silence between them. “I’ve heard they don’t give it very often. I don’t know what the criteria are. No one does. Until I hear something from them it’s all a fantasy.”
“Then why don’t we make the most of it while we can,” Hank said. He turned and pulled her close to him. “You’re institutionalized housing or mine?”
Micheal is a Neurodivergent Ghostwriter who works in Fiction and Non-Fiction. He has experience with ADHD, Schizo-Affective Disorder, Conversion Disorder, and more. Reach out here to discuss your goals and how you can achieve them through the written word.