When you live on the line, you wait for darkness. Darkness never decides what I’m worth. It comes. It goes. It doesn’t pretend that death only happens to those of us in the box. It’s generous.

It’s nothing like us.

*     *     *
In the small space between the doors of Kolchuk Industries and the beginning of the line, the boxes, videos, and criers have me wishing I could work until dark. Kolchuk caps monthly overtime and I’m already over. I won’t be paid for two of the hours I worked today.

The activity on the line is less intense than during the week, but it still feels like a cheese grater running through my eardrum. With fewer people going to and from the train at the other end, today is for maintenance and family. And any idiots using the bridge to avoid traffic below. Even idiots and maintenance staff have money to donate.

I put my head down and my earbuds in. I use the last of my music credits to play ocean sounds. With all my extra money going to my immunosuppressant treatments, I don’t have enough to activate the noise canceling function, so I turn the volume all the way up. The messy sounds of disease that swarm like gnats fade away with the waves. Headphones rarely deter the most desperate of families, but they are a screen between me and the noise. It’s a mile and a half of vibrating HealthCare Stalls begging for loose change. I try to exude indifference. I get lost in the sound. Lost enough that my gaze wanders.

The sky is a bright, off grey and the air cool. The little bit of sun that peeks through bounces off the overly polished railing to the boxes on the line back to me. The breeze is enough to mask the smell of the disinfectant used to clean a box for a new patient. It’s enough to imagine this bridge over water. The gentle waves, the spray of salt. No machinery, no tubes. The solitude. Peace.

Lost in this fantasy, my eyes drift to one of the boxes. The woman behind the glass is strapped in at the waist, her head on the glass she’s trapped behind. She bangs in a rhythm only she can hear. It resonates like running. The hiss of the box increases in tempo as she exerts herself. Her eyes are brown seas of suffering. I don’t look away. She has me.

She cries and shakes her head saying thank you. I can’t tell if she is grateful for the attention or trying to layer the shame: if she thanks me, what kind of monster would I be if I didn’t donate?

I walk closer to the box and take the change from my morning coffee, dump it in the tray to the right of the glass enclosure. The box churns and counts the offering, announcing, “Seven more minutes added. Thank you for extending my life” in what I imagine is her voice. I think I recognize it but can’t match it with her face. That’s a relief. Maybe she worked in my department?

“I’m sorry, that’s all I have.”

I’m not sure why I lie. It feels like the only thing to say.

I stare at boxes now. I can’t take my eyes from them. I try not to see but I’ve broken the barrier. There’s a kid in one, with a dad leaning against the glass, reading a story. I recognize the father from the train into work each morning. In another, there’s a man pacing back and forth; two steps, turn, two steps, turn. It looks like he’s screaming. A young woman has only a few hours left. Her mother or grandmother is draped across the box as if she’s trying to lift the three-ton object from the ground. Even the empty box, being hosed down with disinfectant for the next patient, is a hole punched through me.

I don’t want this power over them, I want it over my own body. Insert money here, in my chest, and see how much longer it gives me. Track my life through dollars, not through the vague guesses of nurses after they administer another round of foggy liquid meant to keep my body from eating itself.

I miss a thick wire jutting out from the ground and fall to my knees. The shock tears my eyes from the boxes. The throbbing in my ankle makes me panic. I check for blood.

“That was graceful.”

I hadn’t realized how far I’d drifted towards the boxes and was now only four or five feet away. An older man sat in the box to my left, tubes coming out of his arms and nose, smiling. His breathing was heavy.

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

As I start to get up, he says, “That was the most entertainment I’ve had in a week. Best donation a man could ask for.” He kind of choke laughs and the box whirs, shoving more oxygen through the tube attached to his nose. He takes a few deep, clearing breaths and says, “Seriously though, thank you.”

“No problem. I, uh, have to catch my train. I’m sorry that …”

“Hey, I get it. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, Graceful. Go. No need to make this interaction any more awkward than it already is.”

I’m grateful for the quick exit. I look up to see his name and how much longer he has care. I feel my guilt eased because he has eight weeks. I follow the tube running from the top of the box to his nose, and a small flash of purple on his upper arm looks familiar under his shirt. “Thank you. Goodbye, Thomas Riotto.” The formalization is forced but less personal.

He smiles again. “Til next time, Graceful.”

*     *     *
I was on the outside looking in too; dropping loose change into the machines. Their pleas felt pathetic. Their need, always their need, pierced my body. It took all I had not to scream at them to just die already.

And when I heard the voice thanking me for my donation, I felt powerful. Their lives, what was left, was in my hands. I chose who lived and for how long.

I was a god.

*     *     *
This whole week, every time I walk to the train after work, Thomas Riotto says, “There goes Graceful!” or “Be careful now, don’t wanna trip.” or “Hey there Graceful. The ground told me it misses your beautiful face.” Each comment followed by the whir and pump of air from the top of the box through the tube in his nose. It’s a refrain I keep hearing in my head. Last night, the nurse asked me, “Who’s Graceful?” I’d been muttering it during treatment.

Today, my plan was to stay late enough that he would be sleeping, or the box blacked out for the evening. New month, new overtime cap. But even though my desire to not see Thomas Riotto helped me burn through the ever-growing pile on my desk, the work was so tedious, so soul destroying that I couldn’t keep up the pace considered “on the clock.” My email pinged and the Wellness Administrator told me to go home, rest, and “take time to be with yourself.”

Now, I’m hoping the man enjoys a midafternoon nap.

I’m making it through the line quickly. Everything is going so well. The boxes are unusually quiet, empty, or have brand new patients. As I get closer to Thomas Riotto’s box, I feel a bit of hope propel me forward. I’ll make it for the first day this week without incident, without hearing his strained voice.

Then, “A bit early to go home, ain’t it Graceful?” So close.

Pissed about getting sent home, just hearing his voice is too much. I turn to him and say, “What the hell do you want? Do you want money? Here. Here’s twenty.” I struggle getting my credit card out of my wallet. When I do, I jam the button for twenty and wave the card in front of the scanner.

The counter at the top of the box doubles what I paid for and a child’s voice thanks me for the donation. Both are unusual. Expecting some of my confusion, he says, “This month my son-in-law is matching donations up to $300. He feels bad that he was such an asshole when I wasn’t on the line. Personally, I feel like this is his way to keep me slowly dying instead of letting go. He’s still an asshole.”

I want to leave but I stand here, staring. He’s pale, but so is everyone in a box. The box itself drains all the color from patient’s bodies. In places where the sun hits the glass more directly, his skin is darker, healthier looking. He looks carved from stone. Even sitting, he’s an imposing figure. His hands are massive and his eyes alert. He’d have been a pain when he wasn’t in the box. Maybe the son-in-law was getting even. The thought brings me joy.

“Whose voice was that?” I ask, though I’m not sure why. The child’s voice was so soft and kind and genuine that it feels important.

“That’s my youngest of five grandkids. I don’t see him much because the aforementioned asshole and my daughter live two counties over. But my eldest granddaughter, Emily, stops by some mornings before I wake up and leaves messages. This one’s from Tuesday.” He points near the bottom of the right side of the box and I see, in white marker, a heart with the word “Em” inside. It’s small and written backwards so he can make it out through the glass. “She’s a saint. Don’t know how she’s related to me.”

He laugh-coughs and, again, the box whirs to life. I have to get out of here before he ropes me in further. I can’t afford this time.

“Okay, well, I hope you have a good rest of your day Thomas Riotto. I’m glad you have family to come see you through this difficult time.”

“Enough of the full name stuff, it makes me feel less human. Call me Tom, okay?”

“Okay. Of course, Tom.” I take two steps away and look back. “Could you stop calling me Graceful then? I have a name too.”

He takes a deep breath and looks more tired than before. Closing his eyes, he says, “Not a fucking chance” and drifts off to sleep.

*     *     *
You’ll end up here too. We all end up here. The line will be your home. You’ll die on the line like all of us, the smell of sick in your nose. And when you die, they’ll wash your box with chemicals specially made to clean without destroying the smell.

*     *     *
I’ve spent the last twelve days in and out of my bedroom, work, and doctor’s offices hoping this new transfusion is the one. This one will set me free. During work I got the blood results back.

My body still devours itself.

I take off early, risking a reprimand from my supervisor. I wander down the line. I need to wait a month before doctors will start the management infusions again. A month of my body consuming my body with nothing to slow it. Nothing to stop it. I don’t want to go home. Not yet.

I take all the coins and cash I accrued over the past couple weeks and donate to every box with the bag icon for weekly infusions. When I finish with my change, I swipe my card. A dollar, five; I’m their savior. I say they get an extra ten or fifteen minutes. I decide. I choose. I control who lives longer, who deserves it. I deserve it.

By the time I reach Tom’s box, I’ve lost count of how much I’ve spent. I swipe, slam a button without looking. I collapse against the glass and as soon as the machine starts the pre-recorded thank you from his grandson, I regret it. The boy’s accent reminds me of Dad’s.

I’m weeping. Have I been this whole time? I try to control it, but it pours onto the glass. What if my infusions stop holding back my immune system? What if I lose my overtime? My apartment? What if I end up in a box? I don’t deserve to be on the line. I’m stronger than them.

I hear a soft slamming from inside the box. Tom’s face is red from yelling. I can’t hear anything he is saying. I look over and realize I pushed the “Mute” button by accident. Half my money didn’t even go to prolonging his life. I’ve been standing here for a minute, so the timer ends. I start to apologize only to hear him mid-rant, “… sympathy? Huh? Do you? How dare you bring your bullshit to me! Find a friend, a partner, whatever! But don’t you ever, ever fucking come to my box, my prison, and start this bullshit. Do you hear me? Do you!?”

I back away, stunned by the anger. I’m sure I’ve done something wrong, though I don’t understand. The fact that I can’t identify it makes me feel like a shell with nothing inside.

He hasn’t stopped yelling. I can hear his fury reach a higher pitch as the air whistles from the effort. The counter goes down faster.

“You selfish prick! Get out of here. GO! Leave me alone, Graceful! You little piece … of shit. I have no pity left … I’m fucking locked in here! You … little …” Someone behind a desk must have gotten a warning that Tom’s box was overworked. The box could handle whatever Tom needed, but it must have hit the point where the amount of care exceeded what they could legally charge him.

Tom fades. His eyes flutter, his body relaxes, and the air flow becomes steady, silent. A convenience fee is applied to his remaining time.

*     *     *
Our one birthright: to live in service to a company that writes your name in a ledger, inputs a number in a computer, and stores these final two memories of you when you die for tax purposes, set to be purged from the record in seven years.

*     *     *
Six days a week, for three weeks Tom screams at me as I pass his box. It doesn’t matter if people are around or if I’m the only one walking, he screams. I want to say I’m used to it, that it lost its meaning or its punch, but it hasn’t. Without truly knowing why, I cry on the train home every day.

So, today, on a Sunday, I’m here. Because it isn’t a workday for most, many of the boxes have family or friends visiting the patients. It’s the only time they can be out of the way of potential donors.

I hoped to see Tom’s family by his box, but there’s no one. It takes a long time to work up the courage to walk over into his line of sight. The wrapping around the gift in my hand is wet with my sweat. I take a deep breath.

Tom looks more tired than usual. He’s slouched in his chair. The whir of the machine is different. It’s a sucking sound now, like it’s drinking from him. He’s still imposing, but his clothes look like they’re melting. You could fit two of him in the extra space they hold.

He sees me and closes his eyes. He straightens. “Today is … supposed to be … the one … day … I don’t … have to deal … with … your shit.” The machine settles into a medicated hum and he looks relieved. “What … do you want?”

“Nothing. I … um … listen, I. Here. I brought this.” I hold up the little wrapped gift in front of the glass and smile. In the reflection of the glass, I see how idiotic I seem. I look down to avoid my own gaze. There are fresh notes on the bottom right of the glass from Tom’s granddaughter. Tom has writing too from his side in a scratchy, tiny font. I attempt to make out the words but they’re small and layered on top of each other. I bend down for a closer look and realize what I’m doing.

Embarrassed, I rise to meet Tom’s gaze again. He looks with such indifference that I explain, “It’s a gift.”

“Yep. I can … see that. Not much I can do … with gifts.” His breath normalized, he starts to gain back a little bit of color in his face. This made his frustrated sarcasm more damning. Each pause, a new judgment.

“Well, yea. Wait.” I open it and show him a new package of nicotine patches I picked up that morning. He looks at it and then at me. His confusion makes me proud and I say, “I noticed you have the generic purple patches, so you must have been a smoker.”

As I talk, I open the donation drop for meds and enter the information on the back of the box. “Those patches don’t really work that well or, at least, that’s what my dad used to say. So, I bought these. I couldn’t afford the bigger one, but you’ll have a few days, at least, with an actual nicotine kick.” I slide the patches in, and Tom grabs them, moving them back and forth in his hands.

He says, “You’re a piece of shit, Graceful. But this is nice. Thanks.” He puts them on his lap. We stare at each other in silence.

This goes on for some time.

The box makes three, loud consecutive beeps interrupting our stare. Tom’s counter is red and blinking two hours. And it’s going down faster than time moves.

When I look back at Tom, he’s looking up. He leans back, shrugs his shoulders, and slaps a new nicotine patch on his arm. He’s unphased.

The timer continues to tick and some of the services of the box start to deactivate in preparation for the end. The PICC line in his arm is slowing its steady flow. There’s a deep hiss from the bottom as the vents below shut. For the first time, I can smell Tom. It’s so raw and sick I cover my mouth to avoid the taste.

The smell brings me back to the box Dad died in. How ancient it reeked at the end, though Mom had been shelling out for the Premium Airflow package. When Mom tried to get money back, insurance told her that patients smell no matter how much money you throw at them. Dad’s insurance wasn’t as good as Kolchuk’s.

I watched my father bake in his own reek, struggle for each breath. He reached out to me, touched the glass that separated us, and begged me to help. Mom was grabbing our forgotten lunches from the car. It was me and Dad and the box. I watched his eyes dim and listened to the “Thank you for using a Premium Life-Extend Stall brought to you by Green Rock Med Supplies Plus. We appreciate your business and are sorry for your loss. Please visit our website …” message repeat, asking for authorization to have the box cleaned. I listened to it twenty-seven times before Mom’s return. Another six before she authorized, and the glass went black.

I grab the credit card I reserve for emergencies. I wave the card past the reader and pay for eighteen more hours. I was too young to do anything when Dad died. I can do something now. I just need time. I can fix this.

The box roars as the fluids start and the vents open. Tom sees me put away my credit card. He mouths something and I interrupt, “I’m going to figure this out. I can make it longer.”

As the initial shock wears off, he starts drifting. The drugs are making up for the slow shutdown. I’m able to make out, “Graceful, you selfish …” before he passes out.

“I’m going to figure this out,” I say as I make my way to the train.

*     *     *
Your name will be forgotten. Your life too.

But it doesn’t have to be.

*     *     *
I’m up all night. I spend hours researching loopholes and rules and grants to keep Tom alive. I send an email to the Healthcare division of the Human Resources department at Kolchuck only to get a response that it would be five to ten business days before they can respond to my email.

Everything takes two business weeks. Everything requires more paperwork than I have paper. Everything is too late.

As I walk up to Tom’s box, earlier than anyone starts work, there’s a volunteer there already. The man is sitting in front of the drop bin, talking quietly to Tom. I look at the counter first. With how fast it’s moving, there are less than ten minutes left.

The volunteer removes a folded paper and pen from the drop box, sliding the paper into a manila envelope. It’s rare that a volunteer would be here this early.

“Family?” he asks me.

“No, a friend.”

“Thomas Riotto needs a friend. I’ll let you sit with him.” He points to a small hole in the glass that I never noticed before. “If you want to hold his hand as he passes, you can here. I’ll leave a glove if you’re nervous.” He hands me a sandwich bag with one glove and moves away.

I sit down and stare at the hole. They didn’t have these when Dad passed.

“Give me your hand, Graceful.” Tom’s breath is labored. His chest has sunk underneath the weight of his shirt, but there’s enough lift to see how difficult it is. I slip my hand in, gloveless, and he grabs it in his. I tear up at the rubbery, cold sweat of his massive hand. It envelops mine.

As soon as his grip is solid, he yanks my arm hard. My head whacks against the glass and I’m seeing more than a few stars as Tom looks to see that the volunteer has walked far enough away. He’s whispering. I barely hear him. I miss the beginning but catch, “You got that? You be in the building when she gets there. You help her slip past the guard and you take the bag. You. She lives. You burn. You and I deserve this. We’re numbers in a computer in a basement of that building that feeds on our names then shits out code. We only cared about ourselves. We think we’re the fly stuck between the screen and the door waiting to be let in. We’re the door. Tear the door down, Graceful. Burn it a …”

His grasp weakens. I hold his hand as the box warns me to remove mine. I wait as long as I dare. The box goes into power save mode and the thin blackout glass on the inside slides down. I pull my arm out at the last second. Tom takes his last breath as it all goes dark.

I rest my head on the glass, mostly relieved. It feels like I’ve dropped a weight I’d been cradling. It was exhausting caring about someone else. But it felt good to carry. Something to distract me from my body’s revolt.

The cool morning air makes my breath fog up the glass. I exhale, the fog spreads, and I see a heart with fire shooting from the top drawn on the outside.

The volunteer has returned but gives me space. I roll my head on the glass and breathe. More remnants of small, barely erased messages from Tom’s granddaughter. Part of it is a plan. Something with fire. It’s smudged, written over. There’s writing on top of writing and I can’t make out Tom’s responses.

There are dates and times. Most have question marks or are smeared. Clearly circled above the burning heart is a time: 10:46 am. Above that a date. Today.

*     *     *
We act as though, this time, we’ll be the exception. We won’t disappear. We’re braver, smarter, stronger. Yet, we disappear and the company stays.

What if the company disappeared with us? What if they burned too? What could our children build from the rubble? Would they be free?

Tom

*     *     *
I’m unsure how I made it to my desk. I can’t wrap my head around Tom’s raving. I can’t stop thinking about Dad. I worry if stress makes my body eat itself faster. It’s going to be a long day.

I look over at the clock and it’s already 9:50. In forty minutes, I get my first break. I’m actually looking forward to the burnt coffee. I’m pushing through, slightly over my quota. Work drags on.

I stretch and the volunteer from earlier appears at my cubicle’s entrance. He punches in a number on the keypad outside and the glass door separating my cubicle from the hallway slides open.

“Hey. I would have given this to you this morning, but I didn’t know it was for you. Sorry for your loss.” He genuinely looks sad as he hands me the manila envelope.

“Thanks.”

My door shuts me in. I look at my screen and it says I have twenty-two minutes of “Bereavement.” Inside is the folded note I saw the volunteer stuff in this morning along with an official letter from Kolchuk.

I open the official letter first. The glass door catches me as I slump to the ground. I go empty.

It’s heavy with pages of costs and charges and surcharges all neatly laid into rows. The first page describes it as a “courtesy notice.” The second to last page highlights a number three times the amount I originally agreed for Tom’s care. The last page explains that my pay will be garnished to cover the amount that exceeded the credit card balance. It tells me that for my convenience they will take the full amount they legally can, 76%, from each paycheck until the bill is paid. In bold letters at the bottom it reminds me that because it was a donation, they charge no interest or overdraft fees.

My computer’s alarm goes off. Work pops up. I’m in default mode. I go to my chair. I press buttons. I click. Nothing processes.

The alarm goes off again. Break. My door slides open. I get up. The envelope falls. I pick it up. Tom’s note is there. I forgot it. It starts:

Graceful,

When you live on the line, you wait for darkness.

I read the letter. The jagged writing on the lined paper feels like Tom. I read it again. I’m ripped back into myself.

The box’s glass and the letter weave together. I’m not sure what it means, but if I’m at the entrance in eleven minutes I’ll find out. Why did I keep Tom alive all night?

I get to the main entrance. There’s six minutes left in my break. Seven until 10:46. I watch seconds tick from the clock, listen to the sweep and beep of passes scanned. Coworkers slip by. It’s all routine.

In the middle of the hustle, there’s one woman who stands still. She waits. Her face is set. She’s intimidating, imposing. Her massive hands grip the straps of a heavy-looking backpack. Her scowl seems cut from stone.

She sees me. We freeze. I nod my head to assure her I understand what I’m agreeing to. She nods back. Everything around her screams love. She looks like she’s about to ignite.

“Hey, that’s for me.” She looks terrified. I move past the guard, who barely notes my presence. “Thank you. Tom said it would be here at 10:46. I didn’t expect it to be so heavy. Here.” I hand her my wallet.

She palms it and stares hard. Her eyes are alert. She smells like a recently smoked cigarette. I can see her jawline quiver.

I feel the warmth of the bag against my chest as I squeeze it tight.

She backs away slowly and pulls a phone from her pocket. She only breaks eye contact after she presses a large red button on her screen, and it starts counting from two minutes.

She doesn’t run but moves quickly down the line towards the train. I watch Emily get to live.

Break ends while I stand there. I have five minutes before I get a warning. The fact I’m not there now has been noted. I put my earbuds in, pay extra for the noise canceling function.

I scan in. The guard barely checks his screen. It lights up. He motions for me to stop and pass through again.

I keep walking toward my desk.

The guard yells. Another brings me down to the floor.

I go limp. A guard’s knee pins my back. My body will be consumed by something other than itself. I decide no one else gets a choice. The floor is cold and hard then hot. I finally feel free. I feel but then don’t. I’m less body, more breeze.

I can hear the ocean.