Drip. Drip. Drip. Plink.

 
The leak strikes the aluminum ashtray I shove in place. It’s not much better; it’s worse, in fact. I still haven’t figured out where the leak is coming from, and all of the emails I’ve sent the property manager have gone unanswered.

 
Plink. Plink. Plink.

 
It’s dark outside. At least, I assume that’s the case. It can get hard to tell what time of day it is when the buildings next door tower so high, the sunlight blocked by steel and smog in equal parts. Scratching my head and yawning, I stub out my cigarette in the wet ashtray.

It’s one of those fancy new slim ones, a maple-flavoured stick they advertise on all the news stations. It’s a concoction of chemicals that are meant to lower your risk of lung cancer but still comes with the picture warning, anyway.

The TV’s still on, a constant droning buzz that makes you feel less alone. It’s set to a news station, the default channel when you put it to sleep. The volume’s been stuck at twelve for days now, but it doesn’t bother me too much. I just shove a pair of buds in my ears and set them to rain.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

 
But somehow, the buds can’t drown out the sound of the leak. I have half a mind to punch a hole in the ceiling with a power tool and find the source of the dripping myself. But damaging property is a felony, and clean apartments are hard to come by in the city.

 
The room lights up in hues of purple and pink, the way it always does at three in the morning when the clubs next door open for business. I got a steep discount on the rent because of those lights, so I’m sure not going to complain.

 
Ding! Ding! Ding!

 
Phone’s going off. This late at night, it’s either a pre-recorded campaign message or solicitors. I heave myself up and out of the dingy futon that came with this place and trudge over to the kitchen, where my phone sits on a charging pad. Charging pads are outdated, but they’re affordable, at least.

 
“Where the hell are you, Collins? It’s nearly closing.” My supervisor, Jeff, huffs down the line. He’s out of breath but that’s nothing unusual. The man has trouble sitting down and breathing.

 
“It’s my day off,” I respond, leaning against the kitchen counter. From this angle, I can see outside the barred window, where the side of the club next door flashes with images of women dancing in cages.

 
Jeff wheezes a laugh. “Didn’t you get the mandate? It was sent out two weeks ago. I could’ve sworn…” his voice grows distant. “Jolene. Jolene! You heading out, sweetheart?” There’s a muffled response down the line and then Jeff is back. “Goddamn regulations,” he mutters.

 
“Mandate?” I ask.

 
“Right, right. Days off are bi-monthly now. Came from higher up; you should really learn to check your email more often.”

 
My internet ran out three weeks ago, only two days into the month, but I don’t tell him that.

 
“Must’ve slipped my mind,” I say instead.

 
“I don’t blame you, everything’s a right mess these days. Just get yourself down here, all right?” Jeff doesn’t wait for me to respond, the line clicking off.

 
Sighing, I march over to the fridge and take out a packet of scrambled eggs, tossing it in the microwave. This place is old enough to have a working stovetop and oven, but I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Besides, processed is cheaper.

 
The eggs are out of the machine and down my throat two minutes later and I’m already working my coat on over my shoulders, stepping into my frayed work boots. I grab my tool bag before I go, jamming my key card into the electric lock and taking the stairs two at a time. The elevator broke down months ago but even if it was up and running, I’d still take the stairs—waits are crazy nowadays.

 
It’s raining once I hit the street, fat droplets pelting my head and shoulders in the bright night. I didn’t bother to bring my umbrella with me. There’s no point. I’ll be working outside for the next eight hours, drilling into beams of carbon steel and hammering away at blocks of cement.

 
Construction. It’s the one thing that never seems to go out of style.

 
By the time I arrive at the site, Said’s already out front, a power drill in his hand and a frown on his face.

 
“’Bout time you got here. Didn’t you get the mandate?”

 
“Clearly not,” I snipe.

 
“I’m not happy about it, either. Pen’s waiting for you up in the pit. New shipment finally came in.”

 
I grunt out an acknowledgement and head up, taking the industrial elevator to the thirtieth floor. The place reeks of sweat and steel. Pen’s over in the corner, sawing into a long carbon beam, and I jog over, steadying the end of the beam with my hands.

 
She shoots me a look, the visor of her safety helmet fogged up. “Thanks.”

 
“Can you even see through those things?”

 
She shrugs and that’s all I get out of her. “Start on the windows, would you?”

 
I nod, then set up shop on the edge of the floor. I fall into the monotonous rhythm of sawing pieces of steel, fitting them to the frames and then bolting them into place. As far as windows go, this place has a lot of them. I’m not sure why, though. It’s not like they’ll get any sun here, not with the twin condos going up next door and the office complex down the road.

 
It’s been like this for decades now. Every corner you turn, there’s a new building halfway to occupancy and several more that are having their foundations set. There’s never enough. Never enough condominium buildings or office complexes or entertainment centres. Consequently, there’s also never enough parks or hiking trails or grass.

 
There’s a resounding groan coming from somewhere deep below us and then shouts rise up from the floors below. I flip my visor up, peering out the frame of a window I’m working on. Workers are scrambling at ground level, running from the site in a mad dash as the building begins to shift, leaning to the side and sending me sprawling across the room. I land hard against one of the concrete walls, my breath leaving my lungs in a choking gasp.

 
Pen groans from beside me. “What the hell is going on?” she rasps.

 
The building is still moving. For a few brief seconds, we’re falling with it, collapsing with it. And then it stops, crashing into a neighbouring construction site in a single, jolting impact. Our safety watches light up simultaneously, flashing orange as a warning is read aloud by a computerized voice.

 
“Shit,” Pen groans. “Aquifer. I thought they ran checks on this one.”

 
It’s a common occurrence in new buildings but frightening, nonetheless. My watch beeps with an incoming call from Said.

 
“Collins! Get your ass down here. It’s a damn sinkhole the size of Newham.”

 
He doesn’t wait for a response, the light of my watch cutting out. I look over to Pen, scanning her face.

 
“You all right?”

 
“Banged up a bit, but nothing serious. We’d better head out before the supports cave. Should be able to get down using the elevator next door.”

 
By the time we make it down from the next building, the supports have caved, sending the building down into the sinkhole in a pile of cement and twisted metal beams. My hand itches and I realize I left my tools up on the thirtieth floor. It’ll be months before I can replace all of them. Sighing, I turn away and push a strand of wet hair back from my face.

 
Said walks up to us, slapping a hand on my shoulder as though to make sure I’m real and that I didn’t actually go down with the site.

 
“Well, this is shit,” he says, still frowning. I don’t think that frown ever leaves the man’s face. “Jeff called. There’s a project down the street that’s a few hands short. Yours if you want it.”

 
I nod but then bite my lip. “Lost my tools in the crash.”

 
Said whistles lowly. “That bites. At least you get your day off, huh?”

 
“Sure.” And the rest of the week, unless I can manage to scrounge up a few bucks before the paycheck from this month comes in. I leave the site the way I came, the rain pummeling my skin and running down my face. A screen in the window of a coffee shop advertises some new brand-name cosmetics line. It’s the kind of thing you hear about every day. Shaking my head, I move on.

 
By the time I’m home, the sun is coming up, hidden behind concrete and chrome.

 
Plink! Plink! Plink! 

I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose, reaching for my earbuds and a cigarette. I fall asleep like that. With rain in my ears and neon lights in my eyes, and the smell of sweat and steel still clinging to my skin, a half-smoked cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. And the godawful sound of the leaky ceiling following me even in sleep.

 
Plink. Plink. Plink.