The Sweet Tide

Mae's fingertips found the cold steel in darkness. The tank's surface thrummed beneath her touch. A low vibration, wrong.

She pressed harder, reading the metal the way her father taught her sixteen years ago. Stress sang through rust. The groan came from deep in the structure.

Footsteps crunched on frozen ground behind her. Joseph emerged from the pre-dawn shadows, shoulders hunched, two paper cups steaming in his grip.

"Brought coffee, Mae."

She checked her wristwatch. 7:15 AM. The streetlamp cast Joseph's face in sharp relief—nineteen years old and already worn at the edges. He extended a cup. His hand shook.

"Drink it while it's hot. Gonna be a long day."

Mae wrapped her fingers around the cup's warmth. The coffee was bitter, burnt. Better than nothing. She turned back to the tank and watched dark syrup weep through a rivet seam.

"Forty-eight degrees," Joseph said. "Paper says it hasn't been this warm in January since—"

"1902." Mae set her cup on the frozen ground. "Warm air expands molasses. Expansion increases pressure. Pressure finds the weakest point."

She pulled her inspection reports from her coat pocket. Three months of documentation. Popped rivets cataloged by location. Leaking seams measured to the eighth inch. Groaning metal recorded during temperature changes. Every page stained brown where molasses had bled through the paper.

Filed properly through channels. Forwarded to Arthur Jell's office with neutral language and technical precision. Each warning dismissed with the same polite phrase: "Under review."

Joseph gripped his coffee cup with both hands. The paper buckled under the pressure.

"Maybe we shouldn't work today. Could tell Jell the conditions aren't—"

"Aren't what?" Mae's voice came out sharp. "Safe? I filed the reports. Followed procedure. What more could I have done?"

The question hung in the cold air between them. Mae knew the answer. Joseph knew it too. She could have refused to work. Could have walked off the job. Could have stood at the gate and physically stopped other workers from entering.

But that meant risking termination. Meant Joseph's mother and siblings went hungry. Meant Mae's own rent went unpaid.

The system protected workers. You filed reports. Management reviewed them. Engineers made decisions. The system worked because people followed the rules.

Mae picked up her coffee and drank. The burnt taste coated her throat.

"We work," she said. "But we stay alert. First sign of trouble, we get everyone clear."

Joseph nodded. His shoulders relaxed half an inch. The smile that flashed across his face was automatic, a reflex from childhood poverty—reassure the authority figure, make everything seem fine.

The tank groaned again.

This time the sound rolled deeper, resonating through fifty feet of rusted steel. Mae's coffee cup slipped from her fingers. Hot liquid splashed across frozen dirt. The cup rolled toward the tank's base.

A rivet popped with a sound like a gunshot.

It hit the ground three feet from Mae's boot. The metal was still warm. She bent and picked it up, turned it over in her palm. The threads were stripped clean.

"Mae?"

She looked up at Joseph. His face had gone pale in the growing dawn light. Behind him, the sky was turning pink. Beautiful. Unseasonably warm.

"Get your tools," Mae said. Her voice sounded steady. That was good. That was what Joseph needed. "We stay close today. Within sight of each other."

Another rivet popped. Then another. They scattered across the frozen ground like spent bullets.

Mae checked her wristwatch again. 7:23 AM. Five hours and seven minutes until lunch. The sun was rising. The temperature would climb.

She pressed her palm flat against the tank's surface. The metal was already warm.