Schkt!

The screwdriver slips. Not by much – just enough. The flat tip scathes the knuckle. She hisses a plea that she knows the machines don’t care about. Blood bubbles through the small slice. She wipes it across her sleeve without so much as even a glance. It stings sharply in protest of the dirty garment.

Click.

Click-click.

Hm. Looks like the spherical casing doesn’t want to open again. Whether it be a stripped groove, or an over-expanded seal, it can’t be known just yet. Not without prying inside. Fingers tap the metal, hearing a hollowed echo. Once. Twice. Maybe if the casing were to be warmed, it might be more reciprocal in opening up. It’s worth trying. 

Click.

Click-click.

Schkt!

This one’s across the palm. She feels it before she sees it, the sting, the ache, the inability to flex her tendons, to grip the screwdriver. It clatters to the ground.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. 

She can’t work. 

She can’t think. 

It’s bleeding. Everywhere. Red stains her workbench, thick beads dripping into the plastic mat, the scattered screws, the wrinkled parchment drafts. This mess could set her work back by at least three weeks. She can’t have that. She can’t. She needs this done, she —

“Sasa?”

— she needs to keep working. She strains her teeth, clenches her bloodied palm into the hem of her long skirt. Picks the screwdriver back up.

“Sara.”

As she pulls the machine closer to her, a hand on her shoulder pulls her out of her focus.

“Sara. Let’s take a break.”

She looks back.