The Frayed Spine is in a lull that is only tested for its cracks now and then by the pattering of rain against the window until Meg storms out of the staff room. Her ponytail snaps side to side behind her.

The door slams shut.

Each one of her heavy footfalls makes the warped floorboards creak pitchier. The words she mutters as she goes lie on the fringe of a pop song and on the edge of a curse. She doesn’t break her pace and passes the counter for a couple of steps.

She keeps her gaze fixed on the trapdoor hatch and her face angled towards Ron, who stands behind the till with his back turned to the shop.

Meg gives the padlock on the trapdoor a kick with the toe of her boot. “Basement still off limits?”

Ron looks at an old wooden radio placed on a shelf behind the counter. It is as dark as its shelf, both dulled by a fine pelt of dust. His thumb finds the ridged plastic of the volume knob as his wrist leans against the curved wood of the frame.

“You know the rules.” Ron turns the dial a notch, and a mechanical snick comes from the radio. “Mr. H keeps the keys. Insurance, he calls it, and everything else.”

The radio wakes up with a tremorous thrum. It begins to vibrate through the wood and into his hand. An amber glow behind the yellowed glass of the frequency display lights up the numbered dial. The scent of seared wire follows.

Meg crouches and presses her hand to the hatch. “It’s getting colder.”

She glances down at her serpent cuff that gives a pinch of a squeeze around her wrist. “If the Boss wants us to start with the basement work–” 

The radio shrieks static through its speaker when Ron tweaks the dial another touch.

He winces and backs the dial off until the radio’s hissing softens into the sound of a distant rushing waterfall.

Meg takes a deep breath as she lifts her eyes towards the edge of the counter. “If the Boss wants us doing basement work…” She pulls her hand back. “The least he could do is unlock the damn thing. Just saying.”

Ron keeps hunting through the white noise until a human voice surfaces.

It’s thin and reedy, the voice of someone reading from a script they don’t fully believe. “…remains locked in this seasonal stasis,” the voice says through the radio as the signal burbles. “We are entering day three hundred of the unseasonal anomaly.”

Ron’s hand stops on the dial.

“Temperatures have held below the seasonal average for the tenth consecutive month,” the voice continues. It cuts to an electric hiss before resurfacing. “Migratory patterns show no sign of resuming.”

A crackle jolts the speaker. The voice drops to a deeper register when it returns, as if the interference has worn the wires down.

“…for a winter that does not … arrive, following a spring that never began. In short, the earth is still waiting for a signal that is not coming. Root systems are holding. Seeds are holding. The tide tables…” A short radio fuzz. “Everything is holding.” 

Another buzz interrupts. It is not far off a whispering of a thousand lost souls at once, with their voices all buried under the white noise. It fades out.

“Agricultural authorities are advised…” The voice wavers. “…to postpone harvest preparations until further notice since existing schedules may no longer reflect…” Static gets louder. “…the current conditions.”

The voice cuts off with a sharp pop of atmospheric interference.

Meg gives him a quiet laugh and knocks twice on the hatch. “So, we’re as old news as the weather.” She stands, watching Ron turn to the till with his glasses dropped low on his nose. “Got a secret spare key?”

“If I did, it wouldn’t be spare.” Ron peers over the rim of his glasses. “And it certainly wouldn’t be secret.”

“We’re still following the Queen’s calendar.” Ron opens the cash tray with a ping. He begins counting out the till, coin by slow coin, each handled like it might damn him if sorted wrong. “Harvest starts tomorrow. He will unlock it then.”

“Queen’s calendar?” Meg raises a brow. “Don’t you think that ship has sailed?”

“Plus we can’t do the basement assignment without involving them.” She tips her head towards the staff room. “Is he planning to break their word for them?”

Ron’s coin clinks are loud and clear enough to punctuate Meg’s sentence word by word.

“Come on, Ron. He didn’t even bother to wait for a co-signature on the basement work.” Meg folds her arms into a tight hold on one another as she turns and looks out into the street through the window. “You know what I mean. His patience is clearly wearing thin.” She lowers her voice. “Since they’re suddenly expanding the use of Ari’s abominable experiment.”

Ron’s glasses go back up. “I know what’s happening down there.”

“And?”

“And harvest starts tomorrow.”

Meg tosses her hands into the air. “Oh, for the love of all gods. What’s he harvesting?” She turns back to Ron. “Disappointment? Overgrown cucumbers?”

She laughs. “Why is he acting like she’s due any minute? We’re still stuck here. Everyone’s been covering the Queen’s roster ever since. Even Val’s neck-deep in Quality of Death forms.”

Ron points at her with a coin. “We’re only meant to follow orders.”

She shakes her head. “Order’s already changed.”

Ron sets the coin down with more care than the denomination warrants.

Meg watches him place it. “Yet he’s still got it all locked down like she’ll walk in any day and start grading us.”

“Always has.” Ron stops halfway to closing the cash tray. “Keeps folk from wandering where they shouldn’t.”

“M-hm, let me guess…” Meg’s eyes drag back to the hatch. The label’s corners lift again as they flutter in a draught that the shop feigns not to notice. “Wandering’s bad for business.”

Ron slips in half a smile as she steps away before quickly regaining his composure. “And worse for the wanderer.” He guides his murmur to stay on the counter, which will not bother to carry beyond.

The floor groans after Meg, and the echo runs deeper down than any basement should reach.

She stops when the serpent cuff tightens around her wrist. Her gaze finds the trapdoor again. “Tomorrow, then.”