I

The alarm clock rang at two-thirty. Frank Delgado opened his eyes, got out of bed, and did not hit snooze. Sophia was still sleeping. He moved quietly through the bedroom, pulled on his work clothes, and walked into the kitchen.

He drank a glass of water from the table. He put on his jacket. He left.

He arrived at the parking lot at two-forty-five. He punched the clock at three-ten. At three-fifteen, he was at the slaughter line.

The high-pressure water gun hummed in his hand. His job: rinse the pork carcasses. Every inch. Remove the blood. Remove the water stains. The gloves had torn three times. He replaced them. Cold water turned the scars on the back of his right hand the colour of old paper.

Mike Russell, the line supervisor, walked over. "We need five percent more output today."

Frank did not answer. He kept rinsing.

II

One day. Two days. Three months. Frank's life was precise as a clock. Two-thirty wake-up. Three-ten punch-in. Twelve hours of high-pressure rinsing. Four-o'clock punch-out. Four-twenty in the parking lot. Five-o'clock home.

Sophia was already up, heating breakfast. He ate two slices of bread and a bowl of soup. Camila, nineteen, studied anatomy in her room, preparing for nursing school. Diego, sixteen, watched basketball in the living room. Six-foot-two. Dreaming of a scholarship.

Frank washed the dishes. Sat at the kitchen table. Drank a beer. Watched television for thirty minutes. Went to bed.

His right hand began to ache. Not sharp pain. A constant, dull ache, like someone had driven a needle into the cement and left it there. He took two ibuprofen.

Morning came. He woke at two-thirty. The gloves tore again. Mike said: "Five percent more." Frank said: "Okay."

Harold King, on the line beside him, coughed for ten minutes. Harold had been coughing for ten years. Occupational asthma, the doctor called it. Harold said he would not quit: "Quit and eat what?"

Camila called home. Her lab needed new gloves. Fifty dollars. Frank said: "Next paycheck." Diego wanted new basketball shoes. One hundred twenty dollars. Frank said: "When your scholarship comes."

III

November. The gloves tore for the fourth time. This time the tear was bigger—along the entire seam from index finger to middle finger. Cold water hit the wound directly. Sharp pain. Then numbness.

He stopped. Looked at his hand. Blood mixed with water, flowing onto the conveyor belt.

Mike walked over. "Delgado, what are you doing?"

"Gloves tore."

"Go to the infirmary."

The nurse bandaged his hand. "Your fingers have calluses, but this is not good. You need better gloves."

"Good gloves cost twelve dollars. They deducted three pairs from my paycheck already."

The infirmary had no better gloves.

Frank returned to the line. His hand shook. He steadied it.

At lunch, he sat in a toilet stall and looked at his hand. Fingers swollen. Nails grey. Scars on the back like rivers on a map. He thought of nineteen years ago, when he first arrived in Kansas City. He washed dishes at a restaurant. The boss had said: "Washing dishes and rinsing pork, same thing." He had laughed. Now he understood: it was not a joke. It was a prophecy.

Three p.m. He returned to the line. His hand stopped shaking. He kept rinsing.

Four p.m. He left the factory. It was dark. The parking lot had only a few cars. He sat in his car without starting the engine. He looked at the factory windows—lights on, conveyor belt turning.

IV

The next morning at two-thirty, the alarm clock rang. Frank opened his eyes, sat up. Sophia was still sleeping. He put on his work clothes. Walked into the kitchen. A glass of water on the table. He drank it. He left.

Three-ten punch-in. Three-fifteen at the line. The water gun hummed. His left little finger was worn flat now—no longer broken, just ground down. He put on new gloves.

Mike walked over. "Five percent more today."

Frank did not answer. He kept rinsing.

Camila called. She said they had enough money for the lab. Diego said a scout had called. Next month, he would watch him play. Sophia said her night shift pay had gone up fifty cents an hour.

Frank heard these things on the line. He did not answer. The water gun's sound covered the phone.

OTMES-v2-FDC-05