Of Dreams and Rust - Sarah Fine Page 0,14

down every syllable, and each sinks into my aching heart. “Sleep well.”

I press my forehead against his chest one more time, inhaling his familiar human-machine scent, and then I walk quickly for the stairwell. I do not look back. Bo will be hurt when he finds out I am gone, but he will be alive and safe. Melik, on the other hand, will die along with countless others if I don’t warn them.

I return to the clinic. Despite the thunder of noises from a factory floor that is usually silent at this time of night, my father is deeply asleep, done in by another day of tireless work. I stand over his sleeping pallet, watching his lined face lit by the soft glow of holiday lights filtering through the window. I used to think he was fragile, but now I know him to be stronger than he looks. He has never hesitated to make sacrifices for people who need care, who need medicine, who need compassion. He has never turned away from a soul he could help. There have been times when I thought he was foolish, spending his money and his time on people he barely knew, but now I understand. Now I am proud to be his daughter, and I can only hope I am strong enough to live up to his example.

He and Bo will have each other when I am gone, and I am glad.

I pack a satchel with an extra pair of shoes, a shawl, and a few hard biscuits. I wrap one of my father’s scalpels in a cloth and tuck it into the pocket of my overcoat. Then I creep into the clinic and open the bottom drawer of Dr. Yixa’s wooden desk. I feel along the top until I find the paper sack tucked into the wooden frame. This is the stash of money Yixa uses to buy his alcohol. He collects fees from the workers for extra things, like notes excusing them from work or allowing them to return even though they are still injured. He tucks each coin away, then dips into this treasure trove to purchase the rice wine and sorghum liquor that steadies his hands and keeps him on his feet.

I don’t steal all of it. Only enough for a round-trip ticket to Kegu and several meals. I am going to try to come back, though I know there is a very real chance I may never be able to return. My hands shake as I stuff the coins into the lining of my satchel. For a moment I sit on the floor, paralyzed by the pull of inaction. How easy it would be to put this money back and crawl under my blanket. How easy it would be to lie warm in my bed.

But at the same time, how impossible.

I pull up the hood of my overcoat and slide on my leather boots. Then I slip out of the clinic and into the hallway, any sound I make cloaked by the incessant clamor from the floor. I slide my hand along the wall, the vibrations rattling my bones. On the other side men shining with sweat are attaching the enormous legs, calibrating the guns, oiling the hinges and gears, preparing to unleash a nightmare on the west. I am almost running by the time I reach the end of the hall and duck out a side exit, but not before checking the clock on the wall.

It is twenty minutes to midnight. The guard is still in position by the gate, but the sidewalks just beyond it are packed with people, some dragging themselves home now that the fireworks are over, some just getting started in their celebration. Instead of walking straight through the square and approaching the gates head-on, I loop around by the compound fence and follow it until I am only a few yards from the open gate—and the guard. Given the concern he showed for me earlier, I cannot believe he would let me stroll out of the compound without trying to stop me.

He is chatting with passersby, though his attention keeps drifting toward the pink-light salon just across the street.

They are doing a bustling business tonight. Opium fumes drift from the salon’s open windows, and musicians entertain the drunken patrons as they wait outside.

I hover in the shadow of the gate, waiting for my moment. The guard is not entirely distracted. Despite his friendly smile and wandering eye, his posture is tense. I