Leah had taken every opportunity presented to her to observe transactions in this new world. People buying drinks at the bar usually used little rectangles that they tapped against a device, but those spending time with the women always paid in paper money. She had also seen the more familiar coins, but from what she could extrapolate from glancing in the till, they were worth a pittance compared to the paper.

The one consistent, that she heard most often from the women but also the bartenders, was the concept of a “tip.” It seems to be an extra amount paid on top of the stated price, but she can’t get a clear idea of how much is the proper amount.

“What’s a good tip in this sort of place, anyway?” she asks one of the dancers who is on a break – one whom Leah has heard speaking Volsti before, as most of the others appear to only speak the strange local language.

“You considering a change in career?” the woman jokes back, massaging feet that had been strapped into terrifyingly tall shoes. Leah had seen shoes like that on a noblewoman’s feet, once, in Bair, minus the incredible spike.

“It just all seems so informal. How do you make sure you’re getting what your time is worth?”

The woman smiles at that, though Leah isn’t sure why. “You stand your ground and ask for more. You talk about money before anything else happens. You make sure you know what the other person wants, and that they’re ready to pay. If they try to guilt or manipulate you into giving more, you say goodbye and walk away. Oh, and warn the others that he’s a grifter, but some of the girls haven’t quite learned that rule yet.”

The woman leaves shortly after. Leah goes back to work, and finishes her shift with no issues – other than a few embarrassing slip-ups looking for bottles that are apparently obvious to any local.

Thinking over what the woman said, when the boss counts out her pay for the night, Leah makes sure to do so in the sight of that woman. As she suspected, when she confirms the receipt of twenty dollars, the woman turns to the man in shock.

“You’re paying her what?”

The boss frowns at the woman. “This was her training shift, to decide if she was even worth keeping.”

“Pay her minimum wage at least, man, she deserves that much if you’re planning on keeping her on.”

“She only worked six hours!”

Another dancer, and the bartender, both approach and stand close to the boss, saying nothing but letting their presence speak their support for Leah. Finally the boss caves, and gives her eighty total. Leah bites her tongue at the indignation of having been paid a quarter of what she ought to have been given.

They all leave together, and one of the women calls Leah a cab while they wait, the boss left behind griping about how he can’t pay out a hundred dollars cash every night, that they need to formalise this thing “ASAP.” He calls after Leah that she can return the next night, starting at half-past-seven this time, and to bring her SIN and a blank cheque.

I have to learn how to read clocks more reliably, she mentally notes. And I need to find out what a cheque is. Hopefully it’s something better than paper money.

It isn’t even a true paper, she reflects as she folds the bills and tucks them in the tiny pockets of her short, but more of a rubbery, silky texture, hard to describe.

Leah’s first ride in an automobile passes in stressed silence. She hadn’t quite understood what her new boss had meant by paying her fare home, but when the noisy machine had arrived she had found herself both terrified and exhilarated. She pays careful attention to the streets they pass, counting intersections and turns, picking out landmarks as they go. The distance, when all detours are cut out, is surprisingly little, although it’s hard to tell with the speed that the vehicle travels.

“You know,” the driver says, towards the end of the ride, “I get how patrons are usually shy about being picked up from that place, but the girls rarely are. You don’t need to be shy.”

“Oh?” Leah looks away from the window. Am I supposed to be conversing with him? What’s his role here? How am I supposed to talk to a stranger in a totally foreign world? She does not continue the conversation, instead focusing on counting out the fare, plus tip.

“Yeah, I never got used to the new bills either, too hard to count quickly,” the driver says as he accepts the money, “And I bet harder to keep track of in your g-string; keep slipping out, eh? At least they wouldn’t get wet with the sweat, I guess. Or they’d get more wet?”

Leah ignores this, as it means absolutely nothing to her.

She goes into the building, finding her rooms and locking the door behind her. The sunrise is already starting to hint itself, confirming that it is indeed much later in the year than the place she left.

Holding the money in one hand, she does a top-to-bottom search of the apartment to find any more like it, and anything labelled ‘cheque.’ Finally, she finds a jar labelled ‘peanut butter’ with a sort of stylised animal on the front, and within it a collection of rolled-up bills totalling three hundred dollars. She wonders how much ‘rent’ will end up being, as she adds the leftover sixty from work.

She lies in bed, already nearly asleep from exhaustion, mentally setting her wake-up time for noon.

*

The mostly empty fridge presents few options for breakfast, so she fries up an egg and douses it in pepper, then puts it between two slices of bread taken from a bag in the frost-lined portion of the cold box and thawed in the oven. She dresses in somewhat more revealing clothes, after her experience the day before with both the temperature and the clothing standards of the women from the bar. She walks out early, taking ten dollars though feeling guilty about spending, and finds the library from the day before. There, she gets a library card, then asks for world atlases and books on Africa.

“Any particular reason?” the librarian asks, pointing her to the correct row of shelves.

Leah shrugs. “Just for curiosity, and to broaden my understanding – since I have the time anyway before work.” The librarian seems delighted by this answer.

Reading the fine, regular print takes some adjusting, but it’s easier than it had been in the past for her. The letters remain in focus even when the book is right in front of her face, which she realises is why Meredith always reads like that. It hurts your neck so much less! No wonder she likes reading, if it doesn’t hurt or make you dizzy to do it.

She laughs a bit to see pictures of African people, realizing why her lie is the most foolish she could have chosen. I’ve hardly seen skin that dark even during our time in Bair! She takes down mental notes about the area, and picks a country to be her supposed homeland: Morocco.

Done for now, she doubles back out and heads to the cafe around two in the afternoon for a bite to eat between meals, not having eaten supper the day before. Mary is once again at the counter, and greets Leah happily.

“I’d like one of those croissants, if there are any,” Leah says, looking at the crowded display case of baked goods.

“Would you like a drink to go with it?”

Leah hesitates, trying to do the math in her head. “What would it come out to?”

“Pfft, it’s fine, no-one notices a missing tea bag.” Mary drops a sheer bag of dark plant material into a mug, then fills it with steaming hot water. Leah recognises the scent from Bair: Black tea. They charged a small fortune for it there, and here’s it’s so common they give it away for free…

Leah accepts the croissant and the mug, and tips accordingly, covering the listed cost of the drink in full.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

At her break, Mary comes out to gab. “So what’s the latest? Found a job?”

“I did, actually. The Chantilly club, a few streets up from here.”

Mary’s face goes a little slack as she hears the name. “Really?”

“Yeah, it’s a nice enough place, though the music is a little loud. Why?”

“Well I guess…just, not many people are brave enough to work at that sort of place. The stigma, you know.”

Leah remembers the taxi driver’s behaviour, and extrapolates Mary’s meaning. “Right, yes. I’m doing alright there, for now, but actually I’ve come across a snag.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the money here is different than it was back where I grew up, and so is the protocol for starting at a job and getting paid. My boss asked me for a couple of things, and I don’t know what they are.”

“What’d he ask for?”

“A ‘sin’ and ‘cheque.’”

Mary nods confidently. “Well a SIN is…I don’t know how that works for immigrants, but for people born here it’s a white card with nine number written on it in red. For a cheque, you’d just have to ask your bank.”

“My bank?”

“Yeah, your…how long did you say you’ve been in Canada? A month?” Leah nods. “Did you establish a bank account before coming here?”

Leah tries to figure out the words, but can’t. “No, I guess not.”

“Oh, God…ok then, I guess you need to find a branch of whatever bank you want, explain your situation, and get an account as quickly as you can. Explain it to your boss, too, that you’re new here and you don’t have an account yet. It should be ok, they’d be assholes to fire you for that.”

Leah asks to be pointed to the nearest branch, any branch, and sets off right away.

There, she runs into further problems. The person at the counter asks her for ID. “Your health insurance card, your driver’s license, your passport…” the woman lists them out, growing more and more suspicious every time Leah shakes her head blankly. Leah finally bows out of the conversation and says she’ll return another time when she’s better prepared.

Doubling home, she does another top-to-bottom search, looking for a wallet like the one Mary showed her, and the librarian the day before. She finds it sitting right on her bedside table, invisible in plain sight, and within it twenty dollars and a plastic card with the work ‘bank’ on it, alongside other words, her name, and a long string of numbers. In another compartment, she finds the white card with nine red numbers.

Well thank the Gods for this much. At least I’ve got an account already set up…maybe with money already in it? Wouldn’t that be a pleasant change…

She’d seen a picture of a cheque at the bank, so that’s the next thing she looks for. A thorough search turns up nothing, and she gives up in despair.

At seven she leaves to walk to work, arriving at 7:30 without getting lost once. Proud of her achievement, she uses the confidence to walk in and address the boss directly.

“My social insurance card,” she announces, holding it out. “I couldn’t find a cheque, but I’ll keep trying and hopefully have one tomorrow.” The boss seems frustrated, but accepts the promise and hands her some sort of form.

“Fill this in, then go to the back to get ready for the shift. You’ll only have to punch in at the start after I’ve processed these.” He taps the papers she’s filling in. “Also, I was okay with how you were dressed yesterday because you were a hire off the street, but from now on you had better dress more like bar staff, not the girls.”

Leah struggles with the form, which asks for lots of very specific information which she does not have. Birth date? How do they measure it? The text is in both Volsti and an unfamiliar language, which she assumes must be the one she has heard so often on the streets and in the bar. Cross-referencing with the cards in her wallet, she finally finds one with a string of numbers and letters that match the mystery-language’s letters.

JJ-MM-AA, the form says, while the orange-black card says AA – MM – JJ with six numbers above. Gods I hope this is right…if I end up saying that I was born ninety years ago in the eighteenth month of the year it will be so embarrassing…not to mention suspicious…

She gets the forms filled out eventually, and hands them back to the manager. He looks them over quickly, and nods. “Go get ready,” he says, turning to put the papers in his office. Leah breathes a little easier, and settles in for another shift.

Another good evening goes by, and Leah finds herself getting familiar with some of the bottles and alcohol names. The labels are written in a variety of languages, and some use totally foreign scripts, which Leah tries to puzzle out with absolutely no success.

This time, at the end of the night, the boss counts out a more exact amount. “One-hundred and six. You can’t punch in until I set up your info in the system, so it’s approximate,” he says, still apparently unhappy at having to pay in cash. He stops before handing the money over, meeting Leah’s eyes. “Blank cheque. Tomorrow. Otherwise it’ll be your last shift.”

Leah nods nervously, but reassures herself that she found this job easily enough, she would surely be able to find another if she lost it. A quiet fear pipes up in the back of her mind, that maybe what she’s made so far won’t cover ‘rent,’ but she decides not to worry over something she can’t immediately fix – Besides, aren’t I doing a decent job of fixing it right now, anyway?

She walks home, despite some of the girls saying that it’s irresponsible and dangerous. The worst she comes across is a group of unruly boys in a car who yell at her in the unfamiliar language as she walks back.

In her rooms, she adds the money to the jar, and sits looking at the little bank card from her wallet. She rolls her eyes at herself and goes to sleep.

*

Mary is not at work the next day. Embarrassed to be seen loitering, Leah leaves the cafe without eating and goes to the library.

The librarian, recognizing her now at this point, welcomes her and asks what she’s looking for. Leah, unsure the scope of the library’s collection, asks for local maps. The librarian asks for clarification, and Leah says she wants to find the local branch of her bank.

“Why not just look it up online?”

Leah blinks in confusion. The librarian accompanies her over to the bizarre contraptions in one corner of the building, and sits her down at one. Leah tries to work her way out with excuses, that she doesn’t know how to use the device, that she can’t write well, but the librarian just switches seats with her and does it herself, to show how easy it is, all the while giving her a curious look for being a young person averse to ‘technology.’

“Which bank do you use?”

Leah reads out the name, and the librarian types a few letters in. The flat surface flashes, and a strangely angular, washed-out sort of map appears. The librarian traces the path from the library to the nearest branch. “Up De l’Avenir, then along Willoughby. Shouldn’t be more than a ten-minute walk.”

“Huh,” Leah says, still staring at the strange map in awe and confusion but trying to contain all her questions; clearly this device is normal for them all, and if Leah wants to be inconspicuous, she must pretend she knows what it is and how it works. “Thank you.”

She looks at the other squares, and sees people reading – watching moving pictures – pushing the buttons to make words appear on the display – playing some sort of card game. Her gut tells her it isn’t magic, as even the little she saw in Bair was showier and more ritualistic than just pushing some clacking squares, but the nature of the devices is totally foreign, and more than a little unnerving.

She thanks the librarian again and leaves in a rush, eager to be away from the strange rows of glowing squares. She walks to the bank, waits in line for a monotonous twenty minutes, and once at the front asks the woman behind the desk how she should go about getting a blank cheque.

“You usually would print a cheque book, fifty cheques.”

Printing? Like a silk-screen? Gods… “Doesn’t that take time?”

“Some. How soon do you need it?”

“Tonight, for my work.”

The woman nods. “You need it for a direct deposit?”

Leah hesitates. “To get paid.”

“Yes.” She smiles and spreads her hands. “In that case all you need is your account number. May I have your card?”

Leah hands over the bank card, and the woman clakety-clacks something into the device on her desk, then swivels a small display rectangle around for Leah to see. “PIN?”

The combination of twenty minutes of boredom and thirty seconds of rapid stress leaves her mind blank. She had seen some customers pushing buttons on similar devices at the bar, and in a confused panic she reaches out to hover her hand over it.

Strangely, she feels her finger being drawn to one corner. She pushes that button.

Something in her arm acts on its own, and suddenly her hand has moved over in preparation of pressing another button.

She stares in shock, but then realisation sets in. I’ve seen this in training; certain motions, when done many times over, can become an instinct nearly impossible to break. And this isn’t even the first time I’ve used that trick, in this world; hadn’t I known exactly which key to use on the first try, back when I first tested the apartment door? And didn’t I adapt very quickly to the little switches on the wall?

She forces her mind to wander, and finishes pushing in the combination by instinct, ending on the little green button. The device makes a few buzzing noises, and the woman turns it back to her; she nods, clacking some more into her device.

It worked? Leah wonders, waiting for the sword to fall. It worked???

“Alright, here we go,” the woman says, taking a small yellow square of paper and writing some numbers out onto it. “This should be all you need, just give that in to your boss and he’ll set up the direct deposit. There! All done.”

The woman hands her back her card and the paper with a smile. Leah thanks her and says goodbye, leaving in a daze.

Muscle memory…I should have known. I wonder what else this body can do?