correct weight, printed and tore off the shiny plastic ticket.
At the end of her shift, she would feed the tickets into a counting machine to get her daily wage. For now, she tucked it safely into the clip she had fashioned from a broken bit of metal wire and slipped it into one of the secure pockets of her apron. With her empty sack in hand, she turned toward the nearby water station. After a drink that quenched her thirst, she joined another line for the hygiene trailer that slowly moved through the orchard. It wasn’t heated or air conditioned, but the facilities were always clean.
Ready to start picking her next bag of oranges, Maisie returned to her assigned row in Block 218. She found the tree she had finished stripping and moved to the one right next to it. She pushed the ladder into position, adjusted her sack and climbed nearly to the top. Up this high, she noticed how unbalanced she felt. It was an unwelcome reminder she might have to push forward her plans to find different work.
By the time she had picked the upper half of the tree clean, Maisie was sweating despite the cold weather. She wanted to blame it on the efficiency of her hooded sweatshirt and work pants at holding in her body heat, but she had been having similar bouts of sweating and feeling overheated more and more these days. When she reached the ground, she took a few moments to fan herself and lift up the sweatshirt to get some bracing, cold air on her damp undershirt.
A sudden burst of wind overhead surprised her. She glanced at the wind machines located nearby. They were only supposed to come on when the temperature was close to freezing. They blew air through the orchard to raise the ambient temperature to save the fruit. Sprinklers tied into the system rose from the ground to add a spray of water to help keep the trees safe.
The machines didn’t appear to be turned on, and the sprinklers were still hidden away in the ground. Was it a ship? Surely not. The landing zone was far on the other side of the orchard where the oranges were washed and packed into crates.
Deciding it was only a random gust of wind, she adjusted the strap on her sack and studied the tree. The bottom wasn’t as heavy with fruit as the top had been. She peeked in her sack and decided she could fit the remaining oranges before turning it in to the foreman. Squatting down, she clipped, inspected and stored the fruit she could reach.
Standing, she stretched her arms toward the sky before moving to the back side of the tree to pick the last few oranges from the bottom. Crouched low, she placed her clippers along the branch where a fat juicy orange was hiding and snipped it free. She marveled at the pristine fruit. It was easily the biggest orange she had ever picked, and she felt almost guilty for having plucked it.
Brushing aside her silly thought, she moved on to the next cluster of oranges. She had her hand wrapped around one of the last fruits on the tree when she felt the unmistakable closeness of another person. Everyone who worked in her block knew about her deafness. They all knew to be careful when approaching her, especially if she had something sharp in her hand or had climbed up a ladder.
She grabbed the last orange before standing, dropping both of them in the heavy sack. When she turned to see what her coworker needed, she dropped her clippers and staggered back in shock. There, so close she could almost touch him, stood Terror.
“Hi,” he said. Only, he didn’t just say it. He signed it.
“Hi,” she said, her hands trembling.
He glanced around and smiled. “I should have known to look in an orange orchard first.”
Taken aback by the ease with which he communicated, she said, “You learned sign language.”
“Of course,” he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I lost the glasses, remember? And I’m sure you haven’t got your tablet anymore?”
“No,” she admitted, enjoying the teasing. Feeling tears rising, she said, “You look good, Terror. Healthy. Strong.”
“I’m only healthy and strong because you saved me, Maisie.”
“You would have done the same for me.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
Still feeling guilty about leaving him, she pleaded, “Can you ever forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” he asked, clearly confused. “Forgive you for what?”
“For leaving you,”