When I was 23 years old, I got a job filling potholes on the interstellar highway.
I was sleeping off the first night back after a nine-day repair run when my wrist buzzed. I squinted at the tiny face on my watch. A woman, about my age, oddly familiar…
“Stacy?”
“Hi, Jack.”
What the hell was my cousin Stacy doing on Corus Prime? I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. Back on Earth, Stacy was my babysitter.
“Can you come out? I’m in the park across from your building.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Be there in five.”
She was waiting on a park bench, dressed like a politician in a tailored beige pantsuit and shiny brown shoes. Seeing me, she smiled.
“You haven’t changed. Your hair is still a mess.”
Nothing a hat couldn’t fix. I pulled my beanie down over my ears.
“So how are you?” she asked. “How do you like PST duty?”
“PST?”
“Polishing Star Turds. Isn’t that what you call what you do?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t realize it was common knowledge.”