After lunch, the workday felt entirely different.

  The hands of the clock seemed to move at half speed, and the tasks no longer felt engaging—more like dull routine. Even the noise outside the window began to distract and irritate him.

  What kept Arnold going was the thought of payday. He imagined opening his mailbox to find an envelope filled with crisp bills and indulging in one of his favorite activities—budget planning. It would be great if he could set aside a little for savings. He tried to save every time he got paid, but the process was painfully slow and quickly became discouraging. So instead, he usually blew it on bar nights, new clothes, or small decorations for his apartment, which slowly filled with his little purchases.

  The rest of the day was spent drawing up schematics and filling out paperwork, occasionally broken up by trips to the restroom or the canteen for water. The last fifteen minutes he just spun around in his chair, staring at the clock. Finally—six o'clock. The bell rang. Shift over.

  He threw on his coat, adjusted his hat, and left the office. The department had noticeably emptied out.

  Arnold stepped outside. It was just as dark as it had been in the morning. The wind had calmed down; the snow was falling slowly and evenly, drifting toward clouds of steam rising in sync. A taxi was already waiting near the gate. Arnold picked up the pace and, nearly slipping in the slush, left the factory grounds.

  “Good evening,” Richard rasped. “We meet again,” he added with a chuckle. “Where to?”

  “Remember where you picked me up this morning?” Arnold asked, sounding tired.

  The driver nodded.

  “Same place.”

  “Perfect. Twelve skrebles,” Richard repeated his morning phrase.

  There were fewer and fewer coins left in Arnold’s pockets. Struggling a bit, he fished out twelve skrebles from his coat and handed them over.

  After counting them, Richard gave a nod and stepped on the gas. The car started moving.

  At this hour, the slums were always packed. Crowds filled the sidewalks—mostly factory workers heading home, while the homeless darted among them begging for change from the unusually generous.

  The roads were packed with cars, most as outdated as Arnold’s taxi. But occasionally, a sleek modern vehicle would appear—its components hidden beneath a smooth hood, rubber-and-metal wheels instead of wood, a rounded cab, and a leather-lined interior. Arnold had a good idea who drove cars like those. Factory owners or high-ranking officials, most likely. He didn’t hide his envy, but reasoned that people like that probably worked harder than everyone else and had earned such luxury.

  The taxi slowly left the slums and entered the city center. The fog and crowds thinned behind them. The sidewalks had recently been cleared, and there were fewer beggars. Residents of the central district dressed in similar fashion—worn coats and hats, differing only in color.

  Richard turned down a couple more streets and stopped in front of a five-story apartment building. This place looked far better than most in the slums—gray walls free of soot, thick but slightly foggy windows, and several large pipes sticking out of the flat roof, constantly spewing steam.

  “We’re here,” Richard announced.

  “Thanks,” Arnold said as he climbed out. “Goodbye.”

  The driver nodded and drove off.

  Inside the entryway, Arnold immediately walked up to the wall of mailboxes. Finding his own, he unlocked it and checked inside. A yellow envelope awaited him, marked with the factory’s emblem—a miniature airship overlaid on a pair of gears.

  Feeling upbeat, Arnold dashed up to his third-floor apartment. Thoughts of new purchases and dreams of going out for drinks with his colleagues filled his head. Still in his coat and hat, he walked to the kitchen, sat at the table, and opened the envelope. Inside was a small stack of bills and a folded piece of paper.

  He unfolded the paper and began to read. Gradually, his cheerful expression faded, replaced by a look of surprise—unpleasant surprise.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  The letter outlined the factory’s financial struggles and explained why they had to reduce Arnold’s pay. At the end, it offered eloquent apologies and stated how the cut would support the war effort.

  Arnold reread the letter several times.

  Cut now, raise later? he thought.

  It sounded reasonable. The army would have more funds, conquer more territory, and eventually, the economy would improve—and with it, wages.

  But how was he supposed to survive until then?

  Arnold set the letter down and counted the money.

  One hundred and twenty skrebles per week on taxis.

  Two hundred seventy for rent.

  Fifteen for food.

  No need to buy clothes.

  That totaled four hundred skrebles a week.

  Sometimes, he had twenty leftover.

  But now...

  Now he’d been paid only three hundred eighty.

  Paying rent would leave him with just one hundred ten—barely enough for a week’s worth of taxis. Arnold sighed, considering his options. Obviously, taxis were out. He’d have to start taking the tram. How much were tickets? Around fifty a week. That would leave sixty. Subtract food expenses—maybe forty left over.

  Arnold leaned back in his chair. Could be worse, he thought, though the bitter taste remained. No more taxis now. Instead, he’d be crammed into a tram and walking through the slums in the freezing cold. He pictured trudging through the filthy streets, shoving through snowdrifts, and didn’t like it one bit. But what kept him warm inside was the thought that his money would help the greater good. He’d continue doing his part here, and the government would do theirs on the front. For the future of the country, a couple months of hardship wasn’t so bad.

  So what if it’s a tram—just as long as the stop isn’t too far from the factory.

  Arnold got up, hung his coat and hat on the hook in the hallway, and started rummaging through a drawer for his neighborhood map. It was a true treasure—showing public transport routes, taxi schedules, stores, bars, and hospitals. After a quick analysis of the tram lines, he figured he’d have to walk fifteen to twenty minutes from the stop to the factory. He’d need to wake up half an hour earlier. Unpleasant, sure—but manageable.

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  That Friday evening, Arnold decided to clean up. The apartment consisted of an entryway and a small hallway branching into two rooms. One was a tiny bathroom. The other was much larger, a kitchen that blended into a bedroom. Arnold dusted all surfaces, then swept the floors. The whole process took a bit over an hour, mostly because of all the decor—potted plants, elegant shelves, a coffee table, a few floor lamps.

  There was no point cleaning the windows. No matter how hard he tried, they stayed foggy.

  The next morning—Saturday—was grocery day on Arnold’s schedule. After a breakfast of instant porridge, he got ready. He put on warmer boots and thin leather gloves. His wardrobe mostly consisted of summer and autumn coats; he didn’t spend much time outside during the winter, so he didn’t own much winter clothing.

  Stepping outside, Arnold walked along the road. For the first few seconds, it didn’t feel too cold—but within a minute, his fingers were going numb and his face stung from the frost. His clothes had frozen stiff, like cardboard, creaking with every move. At least there were no deep snowdrifts, so his feet weren’t freezing. A few minutes later, he reached a more open area. The wind lashed at him like a whip. His eyes watered.

  At the center of this plaza stood the shopping building—a large brick structure with several entrances. Around it was a parking lot, full of similar-looking vehicles. A bit farther off, taxis loitered by the curb, hoping to lure in customers. Arnold already knew how he’d be getting home.

  Inside the spacious entrance hall, Arnold grabbed a free cloth shopping bag with shivering hands and stepped into the main market area. Essentially, it was a big room full of stalls selling groceries, clothes, and other goods. On weekends, it was always packed.

  Arnold’s purchases were always the basics: bread, butter, tea, eggs, milk, a couple pieces of pork, cheap pasta, and grains.

  But right at the first stall, he got a surprise. Bread had gone up in price. It didn’t upset him too much, and he kept walking, hoping prices elsewhere hadn’t changed. To his dismay, eggs were now unexpectedly expensive too.

  “What a nightmare,” Arnold muttered, handing a bill to an unhealthily thin saleswoman.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Prices are going up, and wages are going down,” he said, repeating, “What a nightmare.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “My boss cut my pay too.”

  Arnold would’ve gladly kept chatting, but the line behind him forced him to move on. With every stall, his mood worsened and his wallet emptied faster. Instead of the expected fifteen or twenty skrebles, he spent thirty.

  Back in the entrance hall, he checked his remaining money—and was horrified to find he didn’t have enough for a taxi home. The rest of his money was at home.

  “Goddammit,” he swore.

  He had to walk, carrying the heavy bag of groceries. The wind seemed to blow even harder now, and the temperature felt five degrees colder. Arnold trudged through the streets, shivering in the cold. Once again, he tried distracting himself with thoughts of someday owning a car, but it wasn’t working. It felt like even his brain had frozen solid.

  With his hands full, he couldn’t shove them in his pockets, and by the time he reached his apartment building, he couldn’t feel his fingers at all.

  As a child, people had scared him with tales of amputation to make him wear gloves. He’d stopped believing in such stories long ago, but now, this thought no longer seemed so ridiculous.

  Sunday morning started off well. The weather had only slightly improved. Arnold took advantage of the opportunity and, visiting the store again, bought the cheapest winter coat and gloves he could find. On the way back, he checked the mailbox and, as expected, found a letter requesting payment for rent.

  He read it at the kitchen table and, for the second time that weekend, couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The landlord had raised the weekly rent to three hundred skrebles. After some quick calculations, Arnold realized that he would either be unable to pay for the apartment or wouldn’t be able to afford a tram ticket one day. He definitely didn’t want to skip work, so he decided to send the landlord two hundred sixty instead of the full three hundred. The rest, he figured, could be paid later—with interest.

  He would have to cut back a little, say goodbye to bars, new furniture, and maybe even go slightly hungry for a while. He felt an unpleasant anticipation of what was coming, was angry and irritated, but tried not to blame the government. They had already given the people so much—he just needed to keep working.

  Arnold spent the rest of the weekend in tense anticipation of a difficult workweek, feeling slightly nervous about the upcoming change.

  And then, finally, Monday arrived.

  Quickly getting ready and having breakfast, Arnold left the house early and headed toward the tram stop.

  To his surprise, it was empty. He started to think he might have been late, but after a few minutes, people began emerging from different parts of the street. All of them were roughly the same age, wearing nearly identical coats and hats. Some carried work briefcases. Within moments, a crowd had gathered at the stop. The workers exchanged a few short phrases, but mostly stood in silence.

  Soon a tram appeared from around the corner, resembling a long iron beetle, belching clouds of steam. Through the windows, he could see it already had a dozen passengers inside.

  The tram slowly pulled up in front of the crowd, and with a loud hiss, the doors creaked open. The workers entered one by one, dropped a couple of coins into the ticket machine, and made their way into the carriage. All the seats were already taken, so Arnold had to stand, gripping the cold metal handrail.

  With each stop on the way to the slums, more passengers climbed aboard. Outside it was freezing, but inside the tram it was stifling hot. The sudden temperature shift made people sweat, and Arnold felt as if he were wrapped in filth from all sides—breathing became difficult. The only relief came when the doors opened and cool air rushed in.

  The tram entered the slum district, and people began exiting in large clusters. Arnold tried to peer through the fogged-up windows, not wanting to miss his stop near the factory.

  He didn’t miss it, but there was still a walk ahead. There was no wind, but the snowdrifts severely slowed him down. No one cared for sidewalks in the slums—only the roads were cleared. Arnold didn’t risk walking on the street itself. It was dark, and there was no guarantee the drivers would see him.

  In the end, he was about ten minutes late.

  After a full day of work, the return trip was even less pleasant. Standing in the middle of a noisy, overcrowded carriage, Arnold dreamed of nothing more than getting home as soon as possible.

  The rest of the week passed at the same pace. Everything remained relatively stable. His wages weren’t raised, but at least they weren’t cut again. Prices had gone up slightly, but not dramatically.

  Winter, however, kept advancing. The winds grew stronger, the temperature dropped, and the snowdrifts became hillier and higher.

  Arnold’s mood wasn’t exactly cheerful. According to all the general forecasts, there was little hope that the situation would improve anytime soon. That was discouraging, even though newspapers and posters insisted everyone had to take matters into their own hands and work harder to pull the economy forward.

  A few days ago, Arnold received a letter from his mother. She wrote about how things were going and mentioned that her pension had been slightly reduced. He took it as a hint, and on Friday, he wrote a reply and included a few bills from his freshly received salary.

  The following Friday, another letter from the factory arrived: his wages were being cut again.

  In an effort to save more, Arnold stopped buying packeted porridge. In other words—he began skipping breakfast.

  The quality and quantity of the free factory food noticeably declined too. Half the rice on his plate was gone, and the meat now resembled some strange substance smothered in salt and spices.

  One day, after a hungry morning and a meager lunch, Arnold found himself lying on the desk in his office. His vision darkened, his ears rang, and weakness spread through his entire body. He assumed he had blacked out. That realization worried him—and shamed him.

  Why hadn’t anyone else passed out? he wondered. Everyone had more or less the same conditions—why was his body the one giving up?

  Something deep inside told him it was time to act—maybe ask for a raise or find cheaper housing so he could afford more food—but shame stopped the flow of thoughts. It whispered that he just needed to adapt.

  But after the next blackout, Arnold decided: this couldn’t go on any longer.