A chill wind, smelling faintly of something metallic and damp earth, whipped a loose strand of hair across Nadine Finch’s face. Her cheek was pressed against a rough, cold surface that vibrated with a low hum. Floral quilt. It was a floral quilt, familiar in its softness, yet utterly out of place. She stretched a foot, intending to hook it over the edge of her ancient, spring-creaking couch, but met only empty air. Then, an entirely too-deep drop, a dizzying absence beneath her heel. Her eyes snapped open. Blue. So much blue. The sky, impossibly vast and clear, stretched above her. Below, an endless expanse of Mudlark County, a patchwork quilt of green fields, the dull gleam of industrial silos, and the distant, rhythmic clang of the canning factory. She was on top of the water tower. Not *near* the water tower. *On* it. At the very apex, where the massive, inverted tear-drop tank met its spindly metal legs. The floral quilt, a relic from her grandmother’s attic, was her only insulation against the cold metal dome. A single, clumsy roll, and she’d be nothing more than a splat on the sun-baked soil of the Verdant Republic. The thought was less terrifying than it was mildly inconvenient. Her last memory was of a late-night freelance project, a soul-crushing SEO article about ergonomic office chairs, followed by a handful of malt balls and the promise of three glorious hours of sleep before her next deadline. This was not her apartment. This was definitely not her year. Below, a small crowd had gathered. Tiny, ant-like figures pointing up, their voices carrying snippets on the wind. She squinted. Polyester suits. So many polyester suits. And an alarming number of tight perms. The year, a quick mental calculation based on the distinct lack of smart phones and the sheer volume of permed hair, had to be… 1982. Sweet mother of pearl. “Nadine! Don’t you move a muscle, hear me?” A voice, deep and calm, rumbled from directly behind her. She’d been so fixated on the plunging view, she hadn’t noticed him. Vance Hollister. The stoic mechanic, his face already smudged with grease, was slowly, carefully, scaling the final ladder rung. He looked a little like a very large, very determined squirrel in oil-stained overalls. His grip on the narrow metal rail was absolute, his muscles flexing under the worn fabric of his shirt. He moved with an economical grace that spoke of years spent wrestling with stubborn engines and even more stubborn bolts. He reached the top, his heavy work boots landing softly beside her on the curved metal. A small, almost imperceptible shake of the head. “What in the name of the Verdant Harvest did you get yourself into this time, Finch?” Nadine blinked. “I’m not entirely sure, Vance. I think I time-traveled. Also, I’m rather cold.” She wrapped the quilt tighter around herself. The fear, the panic, the existential dread of temporal displacement—it was all there, a low thrum beneath her exhaustion. But mostly, she was just tired. Terribly, profoundly tired. The idea of navigating a new timeline, a new body, a new everything, felt like a mountain of paperwork she simply couldn't face. Vance, without a word, nudged the quilt aside, carefully scooped her up. One arm went under her knees, the other supported her back. His arms were solid, unyielding, smelling of oil and faint mint. He settled her against his chest, her head nestled just below his chin. The height, which had been so terrifying moments ago, now felt… distant. Safe, somehow. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her ear, the rumble of his breathing. “Don’t look down,” he advised, his voice a low vibration against her scalp. He began the slow, deliberate descent. Each rung demanded a careful placement of his heavy boots, each movement steady and sure. It was a long way down. A lot of rungs. Too many to count. Her body, already protesting the exertion of waking, relaxed further into his embrace. The combined scent of metal, machine oil, and Vance’s earthy musk was surprisingly comforting. She closed her eyes. The gentle rocking motion, the steady rhythm of his descent, the warmth radiating from him—it was like being rocked in a very large, very sturdy cradle. Sleep claimed her before they were halfway down. She awoke to the murmur of voices and a distinct stiffness in her neck. Vance was still carrying her, though now they were on solid ground. The crowd had swelled, a sea of bewildered faces and brightly colored polyester. Brenda Gable, the undisputed queen of Mudlark County’s 'Rise and Grind' committee, stood front and center, hands on her hips, her perm lacquered into an unmovable helmet. Her face was a mask of furious indignation. She wore a power suit the color of a bruised plum, her shoulders padded to intimidating proportions. “Nadine Finch!” Brenda’s voice, sharp enough to cut glass, rang out. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea how much effort went into organizing this welcome committee? We were going to greet you with a rousing chant and a pamphlet on agricultural efficiency! You’re supposed to be inspired! You’re supposed to be *ready to work*!” Nadine burrowed deeper into Vance’s shoulder. “Too loud,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “And I’m not really a pamphlet person, Brenda. More of a lie-on-the-couch-and-eat-snacks person.” The crowd gasped. Brenda’s face flushed a deeper shade of plum. Vance, however, merely adjusted his grip, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He walked past Brenda as if she were a particularly noisy garden gnome, heading straight for the dusty path leading to his auto garage. Nadine, comfortable and completely unwilling to put her feet on the ground, remained steadfastly in his arms. The walk was too long. The ground was too far. Her feet, she decided, were on strike. “Nadine, put your feet down!” Brenda shrieked, following them. “You can’t just let him carry you! It’s unseemly! It’s… it’s lazy! There’s a whole town waiting to see you contribute!” “I am contributing,” Nadine said, her voice muffled against Vance’s chest. “I’m providing a spectacle. That’s a form of entertainment, isn’t it? Very valuable to the local economy, I’m sure.” Vance chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. He didn’t slow down. From the edge of the crowd, Jolene Mercer, her usually bright eyes narrowed just a fraction, watched them go. Her smile, typically so sweet, seemed to hold a sharp, unreadable edge. Finally, Vance carried her into the dimly lit, soot-stained sanctuary of his garage. The air was thick with the scent of oil, gasoline, and something metallic. He gently set her down on an old, surprisingly comfortable armchair draped with a worn canvas tarp. He wiped a streak of grime from his chin with the back of his hand. Then, from a small, battered metal tin on a nearby workbench, he produced a crinkling paper bag. Malt balls. Her stare locked on the paper confection. “I’ll buy you a lifetime of malt balls if you just stay right there.”

The Water Tower Awakening