It was the gathering time. In ThisPlace, there was a time for everything. Times to eat, times to work, times to sleep, and now was the time to gather and share information. They all adhered to the schedule. Planning is life. To keep ThisPlace going each person had to do their share. Each hand was a cog in the clockwork. Even the babies, the few there were, did their part by being born at the same time during Septem and Octo, the least wet months. Bone tired, Isley was sick of being a cog. This morning was the start of sowing time. Twelve hours, Isley prepared for new crops. The earth boxes were nearly ready but there were leaks in the domes. There were always leaks in the domes. Every part of her ached from the climbing and the patching. She had worked hard today and accomplished much. They all lived off the moss, lichen, and fungi that Isley and her team grew. Many patted her shoulder and congratulated the sowers. Usually Isley felt a good tired from all the work she had done. Not today, lately the cycle of work had felt endless, pointless. Water always finds a way. She had skipped supper time because she was too tired to listen to others talk. It was frowned upon to slip from the gears of the schedule. Weariness seeping into truculence, Isley was willing to take the corrections from the leading team later after her sleep six. Stomach grumbling, Isley headed for the quiet of her nook. Her hand was on her curtain door when she heard the running of water. Panicked Isley whirled listening for the leak. Her eyes lit on Trevor. The old man was peeing in a corner. Isley sighed with relief and then laughed a little. He was taking a leak, she thought with a giggle. Trevor was one of the very old ones, nearly 60. He had once been a builder and now his memories had washed away. “Jess is that you? Where have you been?” the old man called to her. From a life of heavy labor, his joints were swollen. His hands bent into claws shook. Trevor raised his arms towards her. After a guilty glance at her door, Isley took his hand and lead him back to the old folks creche. “Hi, Dad. I was looking for you to tell me a story,” Isley said. Her callused hands patted his shoulder as she led him to away. “Did I ever tell you about the time your mom and I drove through the desert. We were heading for Vegas, just a couple of kids looking to blow off steam. I kind of borrowed your grandpa’s Camaro that’s a kind of car, you know. It was so beautiful, an ocean of blazing sand as far as the eye could see. Your mom put her bare feet on the dash and we sang badly,” Trevor said. Isley laughed as they walked holding hands.