The machine made the same noise it always made. A low, steady hum that vibrated through the floor and into the soles of your shoes. Jack Morrison stood at his station on the assembly line, repeating the same motion for the eighth hour in a row. Pick up the bolt. Slide it into the slot. Tighten with the torque wrench. Move to the next one. Pick up. Slide. Tighten. Move.

He had been doing this since he was nineteen. He was thirty-four now. Fifteen years of picking up, sliding, tightening, moving.

His hands were scarred from years of contact with metal and grease. The calluses on his palms were thick enough that he barely felt the rough edges of the bolts anymore. He had forgotten what it felt like to hold something that wasn't made of steel.

"Hey, Jack."

Maria Santos was at the station next to his. She was twenty-nine, single mother of two, and the only person at the factory who ever talked to him about anything other than work.

"Yeah?"

"My mom got a call from the hospital yesterday. Your dad's condition got worse."

Jack didn't stop working. Pick up. Slide. Tighten. Move. "How bad?"

"They think it might be pneumonia. Again."

Pick up. Slide. Tighten. Move.

"Did you tell him about the subsidy cut?" Maria asked quietly.

Jack's hands paused for exactly half a second before resuming their rhythm. "Yeah. I told him."

"What did he say?"

"He said he's sorry. That he didn't mean to be a burden."

Maria was quiet for a moment. Then: "You shouldn't have told him. He's already got enough on his mind."

Pick up. Slide. Tighten. Move.

Jack thought about his father in his wheelchair, sitting in the living room of their small house in Youngstown, staring at the wall with the same expression he had worn for twelve years. The expression of a man who had been broken by something and had never quite put himself back together.

Bob Morrison had been a steelworker at the Republic Plant for twenty-three years. Then came the accident. Or rather, the "incident." A malfunctioning press, a safety guard that had been removed to increase production speed, and Bob's left leg caught in the machine when it came down.

The company said it was operator error. Said Bob had removed the guard himself. Said he had been tired and careless. Bob said he didn't remember anything. Said he had been focused on the work, as he always was.

The company's version went on record. Bob's version went nowhere.

He got a settlement, barely enough to cover the medical bills. He got a wheelchair. He got a lifetime of sitting in a living room, staring at a wall, wondering why the world had decided he was expendable.

Jack had spent twelve years trying to get justice. He had hired a lawyer who took thirty percent of whatever he recovered and then did almost nothing. He had tried to go to the press, but the local newspaper wasn't interested in a story that didn't involve a celebrity or a scandal. He had tried confronting the safety supervisor, Gary Voss, in person. Voss had called the police.

Every attempt had ended the same way: Jack was tired, broke, and further from justice than when he had started.

Now his father was sick again, and Jack had no money for a doctor, no time off work, no energy left for fighting.

That evening, he sat in his car in the factory parking lot, staring at the gate. Through the fence, he could see the Voss Logistics building across the street. Gary Voss was in there somewhere, sitting in an office with a view, making a salary that was probably more than Jack made in a year.

Jack had wanted to confront him again. He had driven past the building three times that day, planning what he would say. But each time, he had turned around. He couldn't do it. He never could.

He drove home in silence. The house was dark when he got there. His mother was probably at the supermarket, working her second shift. His father was in the living room, watching television with the volume turned down so low that barely anyone could hear it.

Jack went to his room and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at his hands—the same scarred, calloused hands that had spent fifteen years on an assembly line. He thought about picking up a bolt, sliding it into a slot, tightening it with a torque wrench, and moving to the next one.

He thought about doing it for another eleven years, until he was forty-five, until his back gave out, until he ended up in a wheelchair staring at a wall.

He thought about it for a long time.

Then he got up, went to the kitchen, and made himself a sandwich. Tomorrow was Saturday. He would go to the factory. He would pick up bolts, slide them into slots, tighten them with a torque wrench, and move to the next one.

Because that's what you did. You kept going. Even when there was nothing left to forge.

The phone rang. He answered it. It was the hospital. His father was asking for him.