What Happened in Strasbourg

Chapter twenty one: Heatwave

Every year, as summer wound down and thoughts of school and cooler weather crept back into my mind, Acheron day was sprung on me. It came in the forms of signs, baby blue banners, and advertisements that popped up all over my apps. "Acheron day is coming! Don't miss out on the best prices of the year!" "48 hours. 50 percent off all products including the newest electronics!

My parents told me that over in America, Black Friday was a thing of the past. There was no point lining up in cold tents overnight and fighting to the death in the aisles of a department store. Instead you could dogpile Acheron's website, overfill your virtual cart, stopping only to complain when the site went down temporarily from overuse -- something Acheron assured its customers every year had been fixed with extensive updates.

In the week leading up to the big event, both my parents worked overtime. My mom stayed locked up in her office using her web design skills to update Acheron's website. She told me it was supposed to have an "even more minimalistic, user friendly interface." But I knew making Acheron's look any more modern and easy to use would be like trying to make the sun brighter.

My dad was busy too, doing something or other at the warehouse to get it ready for the biggest day of shipping for the year. I was happy that my parents and I were out of each other's way. It was hard to act natural around them, my dad mostly. Whenever he was around, I kept my head down and didn't respond to his comments about Houston, or how this Acheron Day was going to be the most successful day for the world's economy to date, or how "The Mir-Tek commies were trying to stage a cyberattack during the sale like they always do."

I resisted the urge to point out that Mir-Tek was anything but communist. It had spent the past ten years fighting a proxy war with Acheron over British markets. But there was nothing that I could say that would make him listen to reason.

. . .

The dog days of summer had stretched out their paws as far as they could this year. And the day of the big Acheron Day sale was the hottest day of the summer so far.

I sat in the living room, looking out the front window at the shimmering mirages forming on the road. Ginger, who had just come in from the backyard, lay by my feet panting loudly. Unlike Ginger, who liked using the stone patio as her own personal heating pad, no matter the weather, I preferred staying inside. The feeling of sweat and greasy sunscreen on my skin made me feel sick and the sun burned my eyes.

As I looked out the window I noticed Imogen, riding her bike down the street towards my house. She pedaled so slowly I wondered how she could keep her bike upright. Her hair was stringy and she wore an orange safety vest that was far too big for her. I ran to the door as she practically crawled off the seat, and didn't even bother propping the bike up with a kickstand. As it crashed down to the street she half-sobbed. "What happened?" I asked, walking towards her.

"It was so... so hot in there," she said.
"Where were you?" I said. "I thought you were at a restaurant?"

"I quit working there. I meant the distribution center."

Her face was bright red and blotchy, and her clothes stuck to her body with sweat.

"No -- why did you do it?" I said. "I thought you said you hated -- You need to get inside and cool off, come on," I grabbed her arm and helped her through the door. She could barely stand upright. I led her into the kitchen where I opened up the freezer and brought out an armful of cold packs.

"Do you want an ice pop or something?" I asked. "My mom just bought a pack."

"No." Imogen wiped the sweat from her forehead. "I feel like I'll be sick if I try to eat anything."

I felt fear radiate though my body at these words. "Do I need to call someone? You don't look okay."

"No, don't call anyone. I'm fine," Imogen gasped. She slumped into a chair and rubbed the cold packs on her arms and neck. I noticed that along with wet cardboard dust, her arms and hands were covered in many shallow cuts and scrapes.

"Why didn't you tell me you were gonna work there?" I asked.

"I don't know. I forgot to, I guess. I forget everything."

"Imogen, there's..." I wanted to say"so many other places to work" but I knew this wasn't true, and so did Imogen. She got to her feet and poured herself a large glass of water. She gulped it down and then refilled it a couple more times before speaking again.

"Nobody in there knew what they were doing. Nobody. The kids who drove the forklifts -- they couldn't even drive cars. And I kept screwing up... they watch us all day, they collect all the data, but they don't help. They don't explain anything! The only reason things go fast is there is literally no other choice! We're too scared to slow down and try to catch our breath."

"Don't go back there," I said. "I'm serious."

"I had to sign a waiver saying that I'd be working for at least four months. Everyone did. I literally can't quit unless I get hurt or sick to the point where I can't walk."

She stared at the floor. "But I get why a lot of people say they'd rather die than work there."

"Imogen, no," I said. "It's only temporary --"

"What's temporary?" Imogen snapped.

"Acheron day -- you just started work at a bad time -- It's gonna get better, I know it will."

"Wow. How about you try to talk to your dad about that."

"I can't just--"

"I thought I could do something," Imogen said. "I thought I might make enough money for Nell and I to afford going back to the same school we've always gone to -- but it's useless. It's not gonna happen. I don't get why I have to be so hung up on it. I never usually get hung up on anything this important."

"Because it meant a lot to you? Because you didn't want to leave all your friends at our school."

"Well, you're leaving anyway, no matter what. I don't know why I cared so much."

"Things have to change someday, don't they? You'll leave the distribution center."

"When? Acheron's only gonna make things worse for me. They're basically cornering everyone in this town, giving them no choice but to work terrible jobs that get them nowhere! I know I'm supposed to say, 'Oh, you don't need your dream job. You can just follow your passions in your spare time.' -- but I just.... I can't really have a job unless I love it. Do you know what I mean?"

"You need to get help. You need to find out how to leave early."

"From who?" her voice cracked. "Not my parents, not your dad. Nobody's gonna help me. Nobody cares about anyone except themselves."

"Well, I care," I said.

There was nothing else I could do to argue with her bitter stoicism. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to get help from the "Landry foundation," an education organization led by a murderer and his wife who clearly knew something about his plots? I couldn't live with myself.

"I need to go, don't I?" Imogen sighed. "You're dad's coming home any minute."
"Yeah, you're right."

Imogen stood up but instead of running for the door like I expected, she hugged me, something she'd never done before. I could feel her arms cold and wet from the ice packs but the rest of her body was still feverishly hot. "What's wrong with my brain? I wish I was as smart as you," she said. "You always know what to say. I never know anything."

"Yes, you do." I tried to smile, but it was impossible when I saw the pain in Imogen's eyes. As I watched her stumble towards the front door I realized she needed more than I could ever give her. And I didn't know what to do to help anymore.

No matter how much I could say that I'd changed my mind, that giant corporations were bad, that Landry was a criminal even, it didn't change the fact that I benefited from Acheron everyday. Did I like my house? Did I like all my stuff? Did I like living in Grays? Of course I did. I guessed that means at the end of the day, I kind of liked Acheron too, no matter what they'd done. Maybe we did only care about ourselves after all. But I hated it. I was sorry that I seemed like so much of a hypocrite. If there was something I could do, I'd do it. But I felt like I'd run out of ideas.