Elara’s first instinct was to check her schedule. Wednesday was "Administrative Life-Maintenance: 7:00 PM - 9:00 PM." Tonight was "Cross-trainer calibration." The clock tower was not on the schedule.
"I still have it. Laminated."
They climbed a wobbly spiral staircase. At the top, the massive clock face was gone, leaving a gaping circle that framed the bruised twilight sky. The air smelled of old metal and rain. They sat on a dusty floorboard, sharing fries. hmm schedules
On the walk home, she passed a 24-hour drugstore. On a whim, she bought a cheap, spiral-bound notebook and a glittery purple pen—the kind she would have loved in fifth grade. Back in her sterile apartment, she stood before the refrigerator, the laminated schedule in her hand. Elara’s first instinct was to check her schedule