NIGHT SHIFT AT THE WEATHER FACTORY

The factory started each shift with a bell that sounded like thunder heard through a pillow. We clocked in, put on rubber boots, and signed an agreement not to discuss the sky.

Weather here was a manufactured utility. The city ordered sunny mornings for business districts, a little rain for the public parks, and no storms within sight of the Mayor's windows. I was a junior cloud technician, employed to untangle fog from ventilation fans.

At 2:16 a.m. a sealed pressure gauge broke its glass. Behind it I saw thousands of tiny thunderstorms folding and unfolding like fists. On the shift roster, the pressure room was marked CLOSED INDEFINITELY.

My supervisor, Foreman Bell, walked past without looking at the broken gauge. "Anything the city doesn't want to feel," he said, "comes here sooner or later."