Nobody Is Allowed to Retire

How it begins

On her sixtieth birthday, Joan received a cake and a successor.

The cake was chocolate.

The successor was her daughter.

Alice stood beside the supervisor wearing a uniform that did not fit. Its sleeves covered her hands. The badge still had Joan's name beneath a strip of temporary tape.

"Family continuity," said the supervisor.

Joan put down the cake knife.

"No."

He laughed.

The other workers did not.

In the city, jobs passed through families like furniture, debt and stories nobody could prove. A cleaner's child cleaned. A clerk's child filed. A sanitation worker's child learned which streets smelled worst after rain.

The system was called Stability.

Joan had called it several other things in private.

"She's completed the introductory module," the supervisor said.

"She wants to study engineering."

"We all have interests."

Alice looked at the floor.

Joan knew that look. She had worn it when her father gave her his boots and told her steady work was the most generous inheritance he could offer.

He had meant it kindly.

That did not make it fair.

The supervisor placed a form beside the cake.

Transfer of Duty.

At the bottom was a space for her signature.

Joan turned the form over.

Blank.

Better.

"What happens if I don't sign?"

"Your retirement cannot be processed."

"Then don't process it."

"Your route still needs covering."

"Yes," she said. "It does."

Outside the depot, six collection vehicles waited in a line. The city produced waste with perfect confidence that someone else would remove it.

Joan took off her badge.

Alice looked up.

For the first time that morning, she looked her age rather than her mother's obligation.

The supervisor lowered his voice.

"Think carefully."

Joan had thought carefully for forty-two years.

She handed him the cake knife.

"You can start with my route," she said. "I'll show you where we keep the gloves."