The Typist Who Changed the Weather Report

How it begins

The wind had changed direction between the original and the carbon.

Ruth noticed because she had typed both.

On the first sheet, the storm moved toward the outer passage. On the second, it moved away.

There were other differences. A time altered by one digit. A line describing visibility shortened until it sounded reassuring.

At the bottom of the carbon lay her initials.

She held the pages beneath the desk lamp.

Beyond the station window, rain crossed the dark glass almost horizontally. Somewhere in the harbor, a loose fitting struck metal in a steady, impatient rhythm.

The duty officer stood behind her.

"Ready?"

"There's a discrepancy."

"Which copy?"

"Both, compared with the observation."

He took the carbon but left the original on her desk.

"Old draft."

"The vessels haven't left?"

"Not yet."

"Then we should check."

He looked at the initials.

"Did you make a typing error?"

Ruth could have said yes.

A small mistake. A correction before transmission. Nobody would ask why the original had reached her through the dockside office instead of the usual tray.

Nobody would ask about the parcel delivered to her mother's door each Friday.

Tea. Flour. Once, a pair of shoes that fit her younger brother exactly.

She had told herself that useful work sometimes produced unofficial gratitude.

Then Nabil had come to the station asking why one family's name had vanished from the relief list.

Ruth looked at the window.

"The observation needs verifying," she said.

The officer folded the carbon.

"I'll deal with it."

She watched him walk toward the inner office.

Under the blotter, a third impression remained on a scrap of thin paper.

She had used it to test the ribbon before beginning.

Ruth slid it into her notebook.

The station clock advanced one minute. Ruth wrote down exactly when she had noticed the discrepancy.

Then she rang the observation desk herself.