Second Shift - Order (Part 7 of the Silo Series) (Wool) by Hugh Howey

the Crow sang to them. He missed those days. He missed the Old Time stories about a world full of impossible things. Leaning against that little desk, Mission suddenly felt as ancient as the Crow, just as impossibly distant from his youth.
    “Give Jeffery this, and then see that Rodny gets my note. From you personally, okay?”
    He grabbed his pack and slid both pieces of correspondence into his courier pouch. There was no mention of payment, just the twinge of guilt Mission felt for even thinking it. Digging into the pack reminded him of the items he had brought her, forgotten due to the previous night’s brawl.
    “Oh, I brought you these from the farm.” He pulled out a few small cucumbers, two peppers, and a large tomato. He placed them on her desk. “For your veggie drinks,” he said.
    Mrs. Crowe clasped her hands together and smiled with delight.
    “Is there anything else you need next time I’m passing by?”
    “These visits,” she said, her face a wrinkle of smiles. “All I care about are my little ones. Stop by whenever you can, okay?”
    Mission squeezed her arm, which felt like a broomstick tucked into a sleeve. “I will,” he said. “And that reminds me: Jenine, Frankie, and Steven all told me to tell you hello. And I’m probably forgetting someone.”
    “Those boys should come more often,” she told him, her voice a quiver.
    “Not everyone gets around like I do,” he said. “I’m sure they’d like to see you more often as well.”
    “You tell them,” she said. “Tell them I don’t have much time left—”
    Mission laughed and waved off the morbid thought. “You probably told my grandfather the same thing when he was young, and his father before him.”
    The Crow smiled as if this were true. “Predict the inevitable,” she said, “and you’re bound to be right one day.”
    Mission smiled. He liked that. “Still, I wish you wouldn’t talk about dying. Nobody likes to hear it.”
    “They may not like it, but a reminder is good.” She held out her arms, the sleeves of her flowered dress falling away and revealing the bandage once more. “Tell me, what do you see when you look at these hands?” She turned them over, back and forth. She studied them as if they belonged to another.
    “I see time,” Mission blurted out, not sure where the thought came from. He tore his eyes away, suddenly finding her skin to be grotesque. Like shriveled potatoes found deep in the soil long after harvest time. He hated himself for feeling it.
    “Time, sure,” Mrs. Crowe said. “There’s time here aplenty. But there’s remnants , too. I remember things being better, once. You think on the bad to remind yourself of the good.”
    She studied her hands a moment longer as if looking for something else. When she lifted her gaze and peered at Mission, her eyes were shining with sadness. Mission could feel his own eyes watering, partly from discomfort, partly due to the somber pall that had been cast like a cold and wet blanket over the conversation. It reminded him that today was his birthday, a thought that tightened his neck and emptied his chest. He was sure the Crow knew what day it was. She just loved him enough not to say.
    “I was beautiful, once, you know.” Mrs. Crowe withdrew her hands and folded them in her lap. “Once that’s gone, once it leaves us for good, no one will ever see it again.”
    Mission felt a powerful urge to soothe her, to tell Mrs. Crowe that she was still beautiful in plenty of ways. She could still make music. Could paint. Few others remembered how. She could make children feel loved and safe, another bit of magic long forgotten.
    “When I was your age,” the Crow said, smiling, “I could have any boy I wanted.”
    She laughed, dispelling the tension and casting away the shadows that had fallen over their talk, but Mission believed her. He believed her even though he couldn’t picture it, couldn’t imagine away the wrinkles and the spots and the long strands of