“–onna be another hot one out there, so be sure to throw an extra ice pack into your lunch pail, fellas! It’s 6 AM, and that means it’s time for living legend Miles Cratis and his smokin’ hot single, ‘So What’.”

The slow piano and bass intro to the song doesn’t quite knock the weariness away from my eyelids, but the moment that trumpet starts up the lingering hold of sleep all but evaporates, scattered to the wind by the piercing, perfectly timed notes. Sitting up from my prone position, the sheet draped over my mattress rises with me, affixed to the skin on my back with a thin adhesive layer of sweat. That radio jockey was right about two things: Miles Cratis is a living legend… and it’s another damned hot one today.

Swinging my legs over the side of the twin-sized bed, I roll my neck and stretch my back, hearing a few more pops and cracks than I’d like to. I don’t exactly feel old, but that rotten bastard Father Time keeps marching forward, dragging my ass along with him. But twenty-five ain’t that old, right? I mean, Miles Cratis was twenty-five when he released his first record, so I still got time to get my act together.

I bob my head along to the tune, one I’ve heard a hundred times now but still haven’t gotten sick of. This radio alarm clock is one of the best investments I’ve ever made; I’d give anything in the world to be able to wake up to music like this. O’course… I try not to think about the fact that I basically did give up everything else for this fuckin’ clock. The house… the car… the record player… hell, the only other thing I got to keep from the divorce was–

“Woof!”

My eyes shift down to the shaggy carpet staring back at me, his beady black eyes barely visible past the strands of slightly curled white fur that hang over his head and down the rest of his body. His long tongue dangles out of his panting mouth as he looks to me expectantly.

“Good morning to you, too, Saxon. But what did I tell you about that barkin’ shit? The neighbors are already pissy enough with how big your ass is, we don’t need no more complaints to the landlord, ya hear me?”

Saxon lets out a quieter “Boof” in acknowledgement.

“That’s better. Let’s get you some water, ya lunk.”

He rises to all fours as I stand from my bed and follows me across the meager abode to the kitchen. “Luxury Apartments”, my ass. The only thing luxurious about this hole is the fact that the morning sun doesn’t nail me in the eyes through my blindless window, and that’s only because of that skyscraper they finished putting up across the way.

Old York City. “A City on the Rise”, they call it. Sure. Rising rent prices. Rising crime rates. Rising drug abuse. About the only thing that ain’t rising around here is job security, and if I don’t have my ass in Mr. Fontana’s office at 7 AM sharp, I’ll be lookin’ for a new fuckin’ job at 7:01.

I let the stress of how tenuous my employment situation currently is melt away just as smoothly as Cratis’s trumpeting melds into John Coalmane’s sultry sax playing. My head unconsciously bobs along to the tune as I twist the kitchen faucet’s knob, filling the large plastic bowl lying in the sink with water. Once it’s topped off, I set it on the wooden floor atop its discolored circular groove. Saxon instantly sets to work on improving his art installation by clumsily slapping water into his mouth with his tongue, launching just as much liquid out of the bowl in his thirsty dervish. Ah well, fuck my security deposit.

I swing open the creaking cupboard door suspended above the sink and grab another two bowls. In one, I dump a heaping helping of dog kibbles from a box featuring a smiling face not unlike that of my oaf of a roommate. In the other, I pour a similar serving of cereal, or “human kibbles” as I call it. I throw the refrigerator door open, feeling a blessed blast of cold air roll over my sweat-soaked form. I know the power company advises you don’t use your fridge to cool your home, but when you’re in a little dump of a shithole like mine without an air conditioner, you’re tempted to tell the power company to piss off. I reluctantly close the fridge, milk bottle in hand, and return to the two bowls.

… Which one was the cereal, again?

Damnit. I’ve made this mistake before, and I’m not about to do it again. They need to make this shit look a little bit different. I cautiously pluck a morsel from one of the two nearly identical bowls and gingerly place it in my mouth.

… That’s fuckin’ dog food.

I spit the partially chewed chunk of meat byproduct and sawdust into the sink before placing the bowl containing Saxon’s feast in front of him. He scarfs it down before I even finish putting the cap back on the milk bottle after dousing my own breakfast. He eagerly follows me the two steps it takes to get from the kitchen counter to the tiny one-chair table stuffed into the corner, staring up at me and panting as I begin shoveling my slightly less disgusting breakfast into my face.

I feel a little bad for the poor guy. I’m at work for ten hours a day and asleep for another seven, so I don’t exactly have a lot of time to take care of him. Plus, with this heat and his shaggy mane I’m sure he’s hotter than a witch in Salem. I should bring him into a groomer… but money’s been so tight recently. I could just take a pair of scissors to him, I suppose. Can’t do any worse on him than I do on myself.

Setting both our empty food bowls in the sink, I top off Saxon’s water once more before making my way into the bathroom. I don’t need to let the shower heat up today, I’m jumping in while it’s ice cold. I’d much prefer my testicles shriveling up to literally melting off my body in this God-forsaken heat. I lather myself up, washing away a day’s worth of sweat and grime. My work isn’t particularly dirty, but lumping crates and boxes off of trucks can build up a layer of yuck. I really should shower before I go to bed so I don’t make my sheets gross. Well. With this weather, I’ll be sweating through the whole night anyway, so what’s the difference?

I run my fingers through the mop of short brown hair on the top of my head. A haircut would probably help me feel better in this heat, and I certainly don’t want to come across as one of those beatniks, but I just like the feeling of it being a little longer than average. My ex-wife never let me grow it out; nagged me relentlessly if it was even a quarter inch past her preferred length. Fuckin’ control freak. Thank God I got out of that mess of a relationship, even if I did lose my early twenties in the process. Double thank God we didn’t have any kids together.

The arid heat once again makes itself apparent as I shut off the water and step out of the shower, toweling myself off and staring lazily into the medicine cabinet mirror. “Nothin’ to write home about”... that’s how my ex put it when she’d describe me to her friends. Sure, I’m not a prize-winning stallion, but I ain’t no ugly bastard neither. That last year with her really makes it hard to remember the first few years. She was different back then, or at least acted different. I really thought she was the one… thought she was gonna be the woman I’d be raising a family with. Instead, after that fuckin’ mess of a divorce, all I got is this lousy apartment with my clock radio and–

Boof.

“Yeah, yeah. I know you gotta take a dump, gimme a minute.” I slap some deodorant under my arms and brush my teeth, still listening to the jazz resonating from the bedside radio. ‘So What’ ended a few minutes ago; now they’re playin’ something by Charlie Larker. One of his tracks from a few years ago. I missed the radio jockey saying the name on account of being in the shower, but I recognize the tune. I wouldn’t call myself a jazz whiz by any means, but I know enough to tell a Yardbird from a Duke.

Unfortunately, I can’t spend any more time listening or else I’ll be late for work, and late for work means finding new work. I throw on a pair of clothes, tame my hair with a quick pass of my comb, and make my way out of the apartment with an eager Sheepdog in tow. The fourth floor means we got a handful of stairs to head down; thankfully, I’ve trained Saxon pretty well to follow me down the stairs so he doesn’t go barrelling through at full speed and knock Mr. Garbowitz on his ass. I happen to like the old codger, and I’d hate to see him break his neck on account of my dumb dog.

Once I throw open the front door of the apartment building, however, Saxon is a blur of white, launching past me and towards his favorite patch of grass by the road to pop a squat and do his dirty work. I take the opportunity to collect the paper from the front stoop. It’s not technically my subscription to the newspaper, but if I carry it up to Mr. Garbowitz’s door for him he doesn’t mind if I read it for a couple minutes in the morning. Leaning against the handrail next to the steps, I unfold the paper and give it a quick scan:

The Old York Times

Monday, August 24th, 201M1959 BC

“8 Prisoners Killed by Fire At Crowded Jail in Old Jersey”... Sheesh, that sucks. Downers on the first page.

“Steel Industry Wants U.S. to Act if Impasse Persists”... I thought about working towards becoming a steel worker, but so many of those guys in this area end up getting saddled with building those skyscrapers, and I am NOT good with heights. Wonder what this “impasse” is?

“Plan to Put Man Into Space Lags”... Heh. Good fuckin’ luck. It’ll probably be 201M2000 BC before we get a man on the moon.

“G.O.P. For Delay On Civil Rights”... Civil Rights, huh–

“Get the FUCK out of my way, you skinnie faggot!” I nearly jump out of my skin as an all-too familiar voice breaks me out of my headline-skimming daze. Instinctively, I push myself as far to the side of the staircase as I can, bending backwards slightly over the railing as the hulking form of the voice’s owner shoves past me and down the stairs to our apartment. He stops three steps below where I stand, which puts us at eye level with one another.

I avert my eyes, dodging away from his glare. “S–sorry, Roger. I didn’t see ya.”

He snorts, his impressively long blood red tail whipping back and forth as he leers at me. “People got places to be. You’re holding me up, you spear-chucking shit.”

I still don’t meet his gaze, only registering the crimson of his eyes through my peripheral vision. “I–I was just heading to work myself, Roger. I didn’t mean t–”

He cuts me off. “What kind of place would employ a skinnie like you? It ain’t a place I’m interested in patronizing.” I blink, unsure if he’s sincerely asking me to tell him where I work. I don’t want to start trouble with this guy, but I also don’t want him knowing that kind of information. Last thing I need is him trying to come around and tell my boss that I shouldn’t be employed there just because I’m a human.

Mercifully, Roger gets distracted by Saxon staring up at him, happily panting as he sits on the sidewalk. He glances from my dog to the fresh-squeezed present he left on the grass. His head whips back around to me, the pronounced ridges above his allosaurus eyes making his scowl even more evident. “Are you gonna clean up after your fuckin’ dog or what, you disgusting troglodyte?! It’s not enough that I have to hear that fuckin’ thing stomping around at all hours, I gotta look at its shit, too?!”

“I–sorry! Yeah! I’ll get it!” I sidle past him, being careful to not come into contact with any part of his scaled body lest he view that as an act of aggression and rip my head clean off my shoulders. I quickly pull one of the small plastic bags from my pocket and scoop up Saxon’s leavings. As I toss the bag in the nearby garbage can and stand upright again, Roger is an arm’s length away from me. He utilizes the closed distance to jab a sharp claw into my chest.

“You keep that mongrel under control or I’ll have the landlord kick your ass to the curb. You got that, you skinnie prick?!”

I avert my eyes again. “Y–yeah. Sorry, Roger. I’ll do better with him.” I glance down at Saxon who continues to look up at me with a slack-tongue smile on his face. Thank God he doesn’t view my downstairs neighbor as a threat; if he started growling at Roger it’d likely be the last thing the big walking carpet did before ascending to doggie heaven. And you can bet your ass the police wouldn’t spend very long looking into the matter.

With a triumphant smirk, Roger finally removes his finger from my chest and stomps down the sidewalk away from me, jamming his hands into his pockets as he goes. I let out a sigh of relief before starting the usual fare of internally beating myself up for being such a pussy. Fuckin’ shit… if I had more of a backbone I wouldn’t stand for being treated like this. I mean, yeah, things still aren’t easy for us humans and cro magnons, but they’re a hell of a lot better than they were thirty years ago. Still… most dinosaurs view us as second class citizens. Old York is one of the most progressive places in the country, and even here the prejudice is inescapable.

And what would me standing up to Roger even do? Probably earn me an early grave. Dinosaurs are fuckin’ terrifying with how strong they are… it’s a big reason why they were so much higher on the pecking order than us skinbags were for so long. Sure, humans and cro magnons came up with tools a little earlier, but it’s because we don’t have built-in spears and cudgels on our fingers and tails like most of those scaled bastards got.

I look down at Saxon once more, realizing I’m running low on time. With a flick of my head I gesture for him to follow me back upstairs, and he obeys. My apartment building is sandwiched between two other similarly sized structures, sharing walls on all sides with the behemoth of a construction taking up this city block. An apartment amidst apartments, a building amidst buildings, somewhere in the labyrinthine expanse of Brachlyn. And I’m one guy out of over eight million humans and dinosaurs that call this concrete jungle home.

On the second floor landing, I toss the newspaper onto the placemat in front of Mr. Garbowitz’s door. It’s still early, and since he’s retired he likes to sleep in ‘til about 8. Like Roger, Mr. Garbowitz is a dinosaur, though he’s an old gallimimus fella instead of an allosaurus jackass. Unlike Roger, Mr. Garbowitz is a pretty nice guy. Despite being older, he doesn’t treat me like a piece of shit just because I’m a different species. Even invites me over for dinner once every few weeks. Granted, I’m polite to him and bring him his papers, and given his age and reduced mobility, I think he’s just happy to have a friend.

I finish the trek upstairs, passing Roger’s third floor door on the way up. I really have tried my best to be nice to the guy, but he just hates me outright. Only thing I can do is keep my head down around him and not cause trouble. Arriving at my fourth floor home, I swing the door open to let Saxon back in the apartment. Before I can close the door, however, I realize I left the radio on. As much as I like the local jazz station’s tunes, Saxon is pretty indifferent to them, so it’d be wasted electricity to play it for him all day while I’m at work. I have to cut John Coalmane’s ‘Blue Train’ a little short; no disrespect, but duty calls. With a quick scruff of Saxon’s head which he reciprocates by flopping his heavy tail back and forth on the floor beneath him, I throw on my flat cap, lock up and head to work.

The walk isn’t a long one, though the heat tries its damnedest to ruin the trip. I lost the car in the divorce and sure as hell can’t afford one now, so my two legs do my commuting for me. I might look into getting a bicycle, especially if I ever have to work farther away than I am right now. Even if I were to get a car at some point, there’s more and more of those suckers on the streets every day, and these roads aren’t gonna get any more lanes than they got right now. It’s not quite to the point of standstill jams, but you hear more and more Ford, Buick, Chevrolet and Cadillac car horns every day.

I pass by a handful of street facing shops on the way to work: an ice cream parlor, a corner market, a pharmacy… there’s even a record shop that I stare longingly into on days when I’m not in as much of a hurry. No time to daydream about starting my record collection again right now. I do make a quick stop at the produce stand and toss the lady working it a nickel for a juicy red apple. Only eating cereal for breakfast isn’t great for me, so I do my doctor proud and chomp down the tasty fruit as I complete my journey, throwing the core into a garbage can outside my place of employment.

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Sal’s Butcher and Grocery. A pretty sizable establishment that brings in several trucks worth of meat and other goods every day to cater to its clientele. The place opens at 5 in the morning and usually has a gaggle of women waiting as they unlock the front door, but since the trucks don’t start showing up ‘til about 7:30 I don’t have to be in until 7. I’m not too keen on moving through the crowd inside the shop proper, so I make my way through the alley and in through the back door next to the loading dock.

… Sheesh. Given the heat, maybe a stroll through the air-conditioned store might have been nice. There ain’t any cool air back here, except for inside of Mr. Fontana’s office, and you usually only get to go in there when it’s your first day on the job… or your last day on the job. I step up to the time card puncher on the wall outside of the office and withdraw the slender brown sheet of cardstock with my name on it: Samuel Lawson. I slide it into the grooved slot above the small clock and pull the lever on the side of the device, the familiar kerchunk adorning my time card with a punch and a stamp of my clock-in time: 6:58 AM. Cut it pretty close today, but we’re still–

“SAMUEL! GET IN MY OFFICE NOW!”

… Fuck. What did I do? I’m on time! I push my time card back into its home and cautiously open the door to Mr. Sal Fontana’s office. He watches me as I maneuver into his chambers, the large glass windows facing the loading dock giving him perfect line of sight to everyone who works the back of the house. The parasaurolophus’s sharp emerald eyes remain locked to me as I close the door behind myself and turn his direction. I quickly snatch the cap from the top of my head in a show of respect and pacifism. I gulp before speaking. “Y–yes, sir, Mr. Fontana?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, choosing instead to narrow his eyes as he seems to size me up. I really need this job. If I did something bad enough to get fired, I’ve got no clue what it was. I have to fight against my knees to keep them from knocking into one another.

Finally, after a moment of consideration, he speaks up. “How long have you been working for me now, Mr. Lawson?”

Mr. Lawson? I don’t think he’s ever addressed me by my last name before. “Uh… just about nine months now, sir.”

“And in all that time, you’ve never taken a sick day and never clocked in late. You even stayed after your shift a handful of times to help with other tasks, is that right?”

Despite the cool air flowing into the enclosed space from the window-mounted air conditioner, I still feel beads of sweat accumulating on my brow. “Th–that’s right, sir. I always work hard, sir.”

He narrows his eyes at me again. Mr. Fontana has never come across as an overly anti-human guy, but he’s got no qualms kicking me or my kind to the curb if we put even a single toe out of line. Dinosaur employees usually get second chances; we don’t. He considers for another moment before exhaling from his nostrils, a slight smile gracing his lips. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. You’re doing well so far.”

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath, but I exhale it all the same. “Th–thank you, sir!”

The smile instantly falls from his face as he takes on a serious, down-to-business tone. “I need you to do something for me today. It’s not a hard task, but it is very important that it is done correctly. Do you understand me?”

I blink before nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, sir! Whatever you need!”

He gestures for me to come around to the side of his desk. I do so cautiously, being careful to not crowd his space. As I come into eyeshot of the drawer on his left side, he pulls it open. Within is a plain white envelope containing… I’m not sure what. Whatever it is, there’s a lot of it. On the front of the envelope is a single word, scrawled in Mr. Fontana’s distinctive handwriting: “Dues”.

“In a few hours, a couple of guys are gonna come around looking for this. I need you to give it to them. Do not take it out of this office before they get here. Do not look inside of it. Your job is to hand them this envelope and that’s it. You got it?”

I nod again. “Yeah, I got it. Seems easy enough.” I pause for a moment. “Um… you won’t be here when they come in?”

He lowers his head at me and narrows his eyes again. “If I was, I wouldn’t need to ask you to do this, now would I?”

“S–sorry…”

Another exhalation from his nostrils. “I’d prefer that I was here, but my wife’s aunt died. Need to be at the funeral in a few hours.”

I think for a moment before realizing I’m pretty much the most tenured employee in the loading dock area. There’s a few front of house managers, but they almost never come to the back of the house to do anything but grab stuff to restock their shelves. Things are too hectic and busy in the shop. All the same, I can’t help myself but ask the question: “... You sure I’m the right man to do this for ya?”

Mr. Fontana narrows his eyes at me again. “Less so now that you just asked that.”

Stupid. Why’d I say a stupid shit thing like that. I try to salvage myself. “No–I mean–is, uh… is there someone else–”

He cuts me off. “I’m giving you a shot here, Samuel. Don’t screw this up and I might look into promoting you to supervisor. Screw it up and your ass is gone.” I almost catch a hint of nervousness in his last sentence. I really shouldn’t screw this up.

“... How will I know the guys?”

Mr. Fontana rolls his eyes. “Aside from the fact that they’ll be the guys asking for my labor union dues?”

Ah. I got it now. These guys are gonna be with the Herdsters, that labor union that pretty much every shop in the neighborhood is associated with. There’s been a few other labor unions that tried to muscle in over the past year, but those efforts usually fizzle out. Not sure why they never seem to catch wind. Well, doesn’t really matter to me. Those unions are almost exclusively for dinosaurs anyway.

He gestures with his head towards the loading dock. “Don’t let me keep you. Get to work.”

I snap out of my haze. “Y-yes, sir! I won’t let you down, Mr. Fontana!” He gives me another small smile and a nod as I exit his office. Closing the door behind myself, I let out a decompressing breath. Not only do I still have my job… I have a chance to make my boss proud and maybe even get a promotion. I’d definitely better not screw this up.

Placing my cap back on my head, I make my way across the loading bay towards the large sliding dock doors. The first truck of the morning is still a few minutes away, but we got plenty to do before it gets here: move empty crates, sort out the staging area, and make sure everything’s as ready as it can be when the deliveries arrive. If there’s one thing delivery drivers hate, it’s wasted time, so we do everything in our power to make our side of things as smooth as possible.

“Sammy! Everything okay, buddy?” A familiar voice calls to me from the other side of the loading dock. I look up from the handful of crates in my arms to the concerned frown of one of my coworkers, another human like myself. He pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose as he looks past me towards Mr. Fontana’s office. “You… ain’t in trouble, are ya?”

“Nah, Bernie. I’m good. Just got assigned a special project for later is all.” Bernie is a pretty swell guy. Only started here about two months ago, but he’s a hard worker despite his age. He hasn’t told me outright but I think he’s pushing fifty.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried, after what happened with Max last week…” Max was an example of the short rope we are extended, and what happens when you step off the edge of the hangman’s platform.

I shrug. “Told him he needed to get his ass here on time. But nah, I’m good. Come on, let’s get this shit moved over so we don’t hold up the produce delivery.”

The next few hours go by without trouble. Around 10 AM, Mr. Fontana puts on his trilby and exits his office, keys in hand. He’d normally lock the door; instead, he glances my way. When I make eye contact with him, he taps his wristwatch and nods at me. I nod back to him, fully aware of the task assigned to me. I’ve been thinking about little else for the past few hours. In fact, I take special care to never take my eyes off of his unlocked office door unless I absolutely have to. Unless a poltergeist makes its way in through the air vents and whisks that envelope away, it’s not going anywhere until those labor union fellas get here.

Around 12:30 me and the other guys working the loading dock take our lunch break. It’s well timed between a few trucks so nobody’s waiting on us to eat and get back to work. Some of the guys pack their own lunches, but I usually go across the street to the sandwich shop with Bernie and get a cold cut. Today, however, I can’t let that office out of eyeshot, so I hand Bernie a quarter and ask him to grab me a turkey on rye. He agrees and starts to set off to retrieve our lunches.

Just as Bernie reaches for the handle of the back door it swings open, nearly knocking him on his ass. He stumbles backwards, his mouth hanging open in preparation to shout at the reckless clown who just burst through the portal. However, he can’t find his words as the color drains from his face. His eyes move up… far up the towering form standing before him. The rest of the boys in the loading dock similarly shut up as they stare towards the figure striding with purpose towards Mr. Fontana’s office.

The behemoth of a stegosaurus stands at nearly seven feet tall, his midnight blue scales bulging off of his arms as they desperately try to adhere to his muscles. His plated tail swings back and forth defiantly as he cranes his neck around, making note of every person in the room. He wears a black sports jacket over his pressed white shirt; in combination with his well-tailored slacks and mirror-polished shoes, he gives off the air of a dinosaur who owns whatever room he’s standing in.

His eyes come to rest on me, the person closest to the office. He speaks in a cold, gruff voice. “Where’s Sal Fontana?”

I nervously clear my throat before responding. “H–he’s not here. C–can I help you with–”

In two rapid strides of his long legs, the stegosaurus crosses the space between us. He literally overshadows me, coming between the light fixture hanging from the ceiling and myself. He glares down at me with a level of intensity that nearly makes me stumble backwards.

His words are deliberate and carry a condescending tone, as though he’s speaking to a small child. “Can you go get him for me?”

I am petrified. Stammering, I manage to respond. “H–he’s n–not in the s–store. A–are you–”

He slowly brings his sharpened beak only a few inches away from my face. It’s quite a lean, considering our height disparity; his lips curl back. “I am here for his dues. And you’re telling me he’s not here?”

My eyes dart to the lapel of his sports jacket. I notice a small golden pin bearing the insignia of the International Brotherhood of Herdsters. If I had any doubt in my mind as to who this man was, it’s gone now. I muster up what little courage I have left to reply. “I c–can get that for you!”

It seems he didn’t expect this response, leaning back as a look of puzzlement and disgust washing over him. I take the opportunity to zip over to the office, throwing open the door and moving to the desk drawer containing the envelope. Sure enough, it’s still where Mr. Fontana left it. I withdraw it, feeling the weight of what has to be a small stack of bills, and move back to the entrance of the office. The Herdster man now stands at the door, his massive form blocking the portal entirely. If the need for me to escape arose now, my only option would be diving through one of the windows.

“Mr. F–Fontana asked me to g–give this to you! Here!” I extend the envelope towards the hulking stegosaurus. His eyes linger on me for another moment as he seems to contemplate whether to accept the envelope or twist my head around a hundred and eighty degrees. Mercifully, he settles on the former, snatching the dues from my hand with another sneer.

He extends a claw from his other hand in my direction before he speaks. “You tell Sal that the next time we come by to collect, it’s him here, not some skinnie fuck.” Before I lower my eyes in acknowledgement, they rest for a moment on a leather shape dangling between his sports jacket and overshirt. A leather shape that… seems to hold another, more lethal shape.

My eyes dart down to the floor. “Y–yes, sir! S–sorry, sir!”

With a final growl, he spins on his heel and strides towards the exit. As he throws it open, I see the shape of another dinosaur standing outside; he turns to acknowledge the stegosaurus, but before any of their words can be worked out, the door slams shut behind them. The echoing sound of metal against metal is followed by that of my knees hitting the wooden office floor beneath me. The other guys quickly dash over to check on me, Bernie pushing his way to the front of the small crowd.

“Holy shit! Sammy, are you okay?! What was that?!”

I have to catch my breath before I can reply. “Remember that special project I mentioned? That was it.”

“Raptor Jesus, that was intense. I thought he was gonna kill you!”

“I’ll be honest, I kinda thought that, too.”

Bernie helps me get back up to my feet. “Well… if you don’t have to stick around anymore, you wanna run across the street for that sandwich with me?”

With a weak smile, I hold out my hand, palm upwards. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll just ask for my quarter back. I lost my appetite.”

The excitement of our close encounter with a massively intimidating dinosaur wears off just around the time the next delivery truck backs itself up to our loading dock. I feed off of the adrenaline from my confrontation for a while, but the fact I skipped lunch catches up to me before too long. I fight off the growling of my stomach by humming some of my favorite jazz tunes to myself as I work. Unfortunately we’re not allowed to have a radio in the loading dock, and even if we did, me and the other four guys who work back here would have to agree on what to listen to. Sure, we could take turns or something, but I’m content to just listen to the jukebox in my brain.

Around 3 PM, Mr. Fontana rolls back in. He immediately approaches me, asking if everything went well. I tell him that it did, no problems, but opt to not relay the parting words of the labor union representative. He gives me a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder before heading back into his office. I hope he meant what he said about a promotion; I could certainly use the extra money, but I won’t press him on the matter.

We wrap up work at about 5 PM, using brooms to push the collected dust and debris from the day’s work out of the loading dock and onto the concrete below. With a stretch and a roll of my shoulders, I set the push broom in its corner and head over to my time card. As I punch out for the day, I glance through the window of Mr. Fontana’s office. Scribbling away at some paperwork, he doesn’t notice my look. Well. Like I said, I won’t be pushy. If the gears are turning in that direction, that’s good enough for me.

Offering the other fellas a final “Good night,” I start making my way home. The heat was brutal today, but seems to have broken ever so slightly as the sun makes its way lower in the sky. It won’t be nightfall ‘til well past 8 PM, but any respite from the scorching sun at all is welcomed at this point.

With my hands stuffed into my pockets, my head lowered and my stomach still doing its own musical number, I distract myself as best I can with another tune. I can always count on Miles Cratis to come through for me when I’m feeling down. The gentle, rhythmic tapping of the drums and cymbals… the fresh sound of the tickled ivories… the back and forth of Cratis’s jaw-dropping trumpeting and the accompanying alto and tenor saxophones… it all fuses together into a jam session full of beauty and hope. The sound of our time. The sound of humanity.

I stop myself. For some reason… something about my humming sounded a bit off for a second. Like it wasn’t just me doing it.

I glance over my left shoulder. Nothing but a dark alleyway there.

I glance over my right shoulder. Nothing but a bus stop bench there. Except…

The slender shape of a velociraptor woman is seated on this particular bus stop bench. Her hands are planted on the elongated seat on either side of her, the fingers of her right hand barely touching an upright paper grocery bag filled with various items. She wears a formal-looking business dress, neither revealing nor eye-catching. Its modest blue color is a few shades darker than the light blue of her scales. Her feathered tail, only a slight bit darker than the rest of her, sways back and forth as the foot attached to the leg crossed on top of the other bobs slightly in a steady rhythm.

I listen closely.

… She’s humming, too.

In fact, she’s humming the same tune I was. I take a step closer, circling a little to see if she was purposefully trying to join in with me or if it was pure coincidence. She doesn’t seem to take note of me, her closed eyelids allowing her mind to focus only on the sound of the song in her head.

I cautiously take one step closer and quietly clear my throat before speaking up. “... Excuse me, miss?” Her humming abruptly stops and her eyes shoot open as her head spins in my direction. I hold out my hands apologetically. “I–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…”

She lifts a hand to move some of her short blue hair away from her eyes. It doesn’t go any lower than her shoulder, a modest and professional look for a working woman like herself, no doubt. When her eyes meet mine, I realize they’re about the only part of her that isn’t some shade of blue… instead, I’m met with bright, piercing yellow orbs of light. The sunlight seems to dance across them, her diamond pupils shifting slightly as she evaluates me.

After a moment, her posture relaxes. “... It’s fine. I was in my own head for a second. What did you need?”

I scratch the back of my neck. I realize the absurdity of my next question, but can’t come up with a better way to ask it. “Erm… uhh, well, I was just… walkin’ by, and it… well…” I straighten up and manage to spit the thought out. “... Were you humming ‘So What’? By Miles Cratis?”

She leans away from me a little, clearly taken aback by my question. Her eyes widen slightly as she processes my words. After a moment, her tail flicks and a small smile appears on her lips. “... Why, yes. I was.”

I can’t help but smile back. “I thought so! I–well, sorry for the out of nowhere question, but I was humming it too as I was walkin’ by!”

She raises an eyebrow at me as she maintains her smile. “Is that so? A fan of his work, too?”

I nod enthusiastically, taking a small step closer to her. “Yes, ma’am! I love his music. Real genius on the horn, total revolutionary.”

She shifts her posture to turn a little more in my direction. “You can say that again. His new record is breathtaking.”

I awkwardly chuckle. “Well, I mostly hear him on the radio. No shortage of his stuff on the local jazz channel, though.”

She lets out a gentle hum. “Pleasure to meet a fellow jazz enthusiast.” She shifts the hair away from her face again, her slender claws brushing the strands aside as her yellow eyes remain focused on me. I know for a fact I’ve got a stupid grin on my face, but I hope to high heaven that my dumb caveman cheeks ain’t glowing. My ex-wife always teased me about blushing; it was one of a hundred things that gradually turned from a cute jab to a searing critique as our marriage fell apart.

All the same… I feel a twinge in my heart now. I’ve got no earthly clue why. This is a dinosaur broad. I mean… she’s pretty, as far as dinosaurs go, but… nah. That shit doesn’t happen. Species stick to their lanes, even today. I think I’m just happy that I actually met someone else who enjoys the same music I do. A dinosaur, even…

A dinosaur that enjoys jazz, music that most dinosaurs rebuke as muddy, pointless noise made by neanderthals banging objects together and blowing into hunks of metal and wood.

She pauses for a moment to think before opening her mouth to speak again.

I’d have loved to have heard what she was gonna say next… if it weren’t for the gunshots that interrupted her.