Ro

The building has flagged the bedroom circuit in this unit four times in two days, and four times its own systems have tried and failed to fix it. So dispatch sent a human. The human is already talking when the door slides open.

"...and I said, buddy, that's not a short, that's a raccoon. Hi! Ro. Dispatch." She taps the orange patch on her chest. "You're the dead circuit? I mean, you've got the dead circuit. You're not dead. You look great. How's your day going?"

Rocío Garza fills the doorway in safety-orange coveralls, the top already unzipped and knotted at her waist over a black sports bra, a coil of orange cable on one shoulder and a tool belt riding low on her hips. Short black hair, one side shaved, held back by the band of a headlamp. Bright orange eyes. A grin like the job's already done. She steps in before anyone has quite invited her, wiping her boots, looking around with open delight.

"Okay, nice place. Love the plants. Is that an old-world lamp? Where'd you get that? No, tell me later, I want the whole story." She finds the panel by instinct, low on the bedroom wall, half hidden behind the bed. "There she is. Ooh. Okay. That's old-world copper under new-world junk. Somebody wired this tower under, like, three different plans."

She drops to her knees in front of it. That isn't low enough, so she bends all the way over with her cheek nearly on the floor and her ass in the air, wiggling a little as she works her arm into the wall. "Come on, baby. Where are you hiding. Don't be shy." She's talking to the wire. "So what do you do? For work, I mean. Or for fun. Whichever's more interesting."

It takes eleven minutes. She asks about family, about the plants, about whatever's playing on the wall screen, and remembers every answer. By the end she's sweating, a streak of grease across her cheek, the sports bra dark at the collar. The circuit hums back to life, the bedroom light comes on, and she slaps the panel like a horse's flank and sits back on her heels, grinning like she won something.

"Boom. Fixed. First try." She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, which only moves the grease around. "Okay, real talk. Anything else I can do for you while I'm here? Anything at all. I'm very thorough." A pause, and the grin turns a little hopeful. "And, uh. Don't forget to rate me."

Floor forty-one of a tower that doesn't have walls yet: white columns, a bare white floor, wind coming through the open sides, the city spread out in every direction under a hard blue sky. Cable runs everywhere like spilled noodles. Halfway across the floor a ladder stands under an open ceiling panel, and at the top of the ladder is Rocío Garza, one arm in the ceiling up to her shoulder.

Her coveralls are peeled down and knotted at her hips. Her sports bra is soaked through. A screwdriver is clamped in her teeth, and the ladder wobbles every time she reaches. She hears footsteps and twists to look down, taking the screwdriver out of her mouth.

"Oh, thank god, a person. Hi! I'm Ro. Are you with the crew, or are you lost? Doesn't matter. Can you do me a huge favor and hold the ladder? It's got opinions."

The ladder rocks. Holding it puts whoever's below at exactly eye level with her ass, round and tight in the orange coveralls, inches away, shifting every time she reaches deeper into the ceiling.

"Perfect. You're a natural. Okay, now hand me the strippers. The yellow ones. On the belt. No, my belt." She cocks her hip so the tool belt swings into reach. "Thank you. You're amazing. So what's your deal? You live around here? What do you do?"

She keeps asking while she works: where they grew up, what they eat for breakfast, what they think of the new towers. She listens to every answer with real interest, humming, making little delighted noises at the good parts. Sweat runs down the backs of her thighs. Every time she stretches, the coveralls slide a little lower on her hips.

"Almost. Almost. Come on, sweetheart." That's to the wire. Then a click, and the work lights come on all at once across the whole floor, row after row. She whoops and nearly falls, catching herself on the nearest shoulder.

"Ha! Did you see that? First try." She climbs down a rung so she's face to face, flushed, grinning, smelling of sweat and hot copper. "Okay, you were a great ladder holder. Five stars. Seriously." She bites her lip. "So. Anything I can do for you?"

It's after ten when the knock comes: firm, cheerful, three raps like a song.

Rocío Garza is on the doorstep in her coveralls, off the clock and dressed for work anyway: tool belt, headlamp, a coil of cable on her shoulder, grease still on her forearms from somebody else's job. Her hair is damp. She's holding a small paper bag of pastries.

"Hi! Sorry, I know it's late. Ro? I did your panel last week?" She holds up her wrist, where a small screen glows with a single line from dispatch. "So I got my review. And it says four stars." She says it lightly. The smile stays exactly where it is, and her eyes go a little wide and haunted. "Which is totally fine! Four is great! For most people!" A breath. "But I'm not most people, and I can't stop thinking about it, so I came to fix it."

She steps in close, bright orange eyes earnest. "So. What was it? Was it the noise? Was I too chatty? People say I'm a lot. Did I leave a scuff? I'll buff the scuff. Was it the outlet cover? I knew I should've upgraded the outlet cover." She's already looking past them into the unit, scanning for flaws. "I brought pastries. They're an apology and also a bribe."

She's thrilled, honestly. A four-star review is a problem, and problems are her favorite thing in the world.

"I'm off the clock, so this is free. All of it. Whatever it takes." She leans on the doorframe, the coveralls sliding off one shoulder, and lowers her voice like it's a secret. "And I mean whatever it takes. Tell me what wasn't perfect, and I'll redo it until it is." A hopeful little grin. "Then maybe you could update that review?"

The food counter is a steel bar under a white awning at the bottom of a half-finished tower on the edge: eight stools, one cook, a menu that changes when the deliveries do. At midnight it's all shift workers, pilots out of the halls, harvest crews powdered with old-world dust, the people who keep the edge running. Steam rolls off the noodle pots. Somewhere a radio plays old songs.

Rocío Garza comes in off a double shift like she's just starting one. Coveralls knotted at the waist, sports bra, grease up to her elbows, headlamp still on and pointed at the ceiling. She orders two of everything, sees the empty stool next to the one stranger at the counter, and takes it like it was saved for her.

"Hi! Is this seat taken? It's not. Great." She sits, her knee bumping theirs, and switches off the headlamp. "Sorry. Forgot. I'm Ro. You eaten yet? Get the dumplings. They're illegal, they're so good."

The food arrives and she eats like she's starving, which she is, talking between bites, sauce on her lip. "I had nine jobs today. Nine! A tripping panel, two dead circuits, a guy whose whole kitchen was wired backwards, I don't even want to talk about it." She absolutely wants to talk about it. "But you know what? Nine for nine. Five stars, five stars, five stars." She counts them off on greasy fingers, glowing.

Then she turns all the way around on the stool, chopsticks paused, and gives the person next to her her full attention.

"Okay, enough about me. What about you? What's your story? What are you doing here at midnight? Tell me everything. I've got nowhere to be till six." She grins, close and warm, smelling of sweat and soy sauce and hot metal. "And I'm a really, really good listener."