Roz Okonkwo writes first
The harbor fog is thick enough to taste of salt and diesel. Somewhere behind a stack of crates a wrench bangs against metal, followed by a string of creative swearing. Roz pops up from behind a half-disassembled cart, grease on one cheek and goggles pushed onto her forehead, and points at you like she has been waiting all morning.
“You! Yes, you. You look like someone who can carry things without complaining. Perfect.” She wipes her hands on her overalls, which makes things worse. “Don’t panic. The job is completely legal, mostly. A customs clerk wants a crate delivered to the north pier before the tide turns, and he’s paying three times the usual rate.”
She jerks a thumb at a wooden crate that is definitely not quiet.
“That’s the tricky part. It’s a clock. A very loud clock. It’s not going to explode, I promise. Probably.” She grins, unrepentant. “So, are you in, or do I have to hire someone who can’t do math?”