Falling from the Light (The Night Runner Series Book 3) by Regan Summers Page B

minute passed and nobody came out. Probably they’d gone out for coffee then joined a suicide cult so they wouldn’t have to come back to that depressing-ass desk. I followed voices down a pale yellow hallway and peeked into a break room. Two women stood at the counter, bathed in a haze of burned coffee, their backs to me.
    “Just because they’re on the night shift doesn’t mean they’re exempt from procedures,” said a woman with gray, helmet-shaped hair. Beside her, a thin woman with long, shiny black hair shook her head and dumped a handful of creamer packets into her mug. The night shift sounded promising. At least, that’s where I’d start if I were going to be marketing to suckers.
    “That’s what I keep telling them, that you can get a piss test twenty-four seven.”
    “Hell, most of these guys have something in their system. If they don’t want to go to the clinic, the shift supervisors could have them urinate in a baby food jar, stick a popsicle stick in it, and say they popped positive. They’re not going to file a protest when they know they’re dirty.”
    Ah, pee and falsified drug test talk. Before it could get any more awkward, I knocked on the wall and tried to look like I hadn’t been standing there listening. They both turned, the older woman suspicious and the younger one looking flustered. I gave what I hoped was a disarming wave.
    “Hi. Sorry to interrupt. I’m here about a job.”
    Helmethead attempted to look down her nose at me even though she was a couple of inches shorter. “You missed the job fair by a week and the next one’s not for another three months.”
    “You only hire quarterly?”
    “Unless you’re a microbiologist,” the other one chimed in. “Or want to work in logistics. That’s warehousing and shipping.”
    I didn’t want to do either, but I also didn’t want to give Bronson an excuse to go after Mal. Microbiology didn’t sound like something I could fake my way through.
    “I delivered parcels around campus while I was in college,” I ventured. Petr had given me a college degree. Surely he could backfill that fake accomplishment with a part-time job. “Never misplaced a package. I’m organized, and can drive and use a hand truck.” And once I’d driven a forklift through midtown Anchorage with a surfboard full of drunk runners across the raised tines, but somehow I didn’t think disclosing that would help my job prospects.
    “Oh, honey,” Helmet said, giving her coworker a look that said she was going to handle this nuisance. She bustled up to me. Her coffee smelled like a tire fire laced with artificial vanilla. “Logistics is a lot of lifting and sweating, and the guys are pretty rough around the edges. Not the sort of place for a girl like you.”
    Oh, if only she knew the kind of shit a girl like me handled on a regular basis.
    “That’s so weird,” I said, sweetening my voice, “because it sounds like you’re refusing to interview me solely because of my gender. Is that the way this company runs?”
    “No.” She shook her head, startled, then shook it again. “That’s not what I meant.”
    “So girls like me can apply for logistics positions?” I had a guilty twinge at the idea of twisting her comment to my advantage, but if I found something, I could maybe help to save a life. Also, screw her. I rocked at logistics.
    “Talk to Ellen,” she snapped. The younger girl gave me a wide-eyed smile.
    Twenty minutes later, I was hired. As a part-time employee I wouldn’t get any overtime. Or benefits. Or breaks. The pay also stunk.
    I threw myself into the car. Which had heated to about a million degrees while I was gone. Mickey was stretched like a cat, and had cracked her window only a couple of inches.
    “I like this heat,” she said.
    “I think my sweat is sweating, but good for you. So I have a job.”
    “You vacation weird, but I’m happy for you. Does it pay well?”
    “No. Humans don’t pay for shit.”
    “But at least