There are lots of jobs worse than mine. I should know. Once medicine got too good the Youth Council capped the age on paid work and still there weren’t enough jobs. Mine is to open filled positions. The wilds are picked pretty clean but there are a few weathered industrialists behind facelifts, under bandanas, bending backs, breaking laws. Rooting them out pays but this one’s my last.

I crest the hill and he’s waiting for me. “You’re no kid yourself,” he says, gun raised halfway.

“Just old enough to need a new job,” I reply. I’m careful to miss his glasses.