It had been a full year since Cal had been brought to Brass Isle. The months had been long, but she'd come to love life in her new home. She felt almost as happy as she had with her roommate. In retrospect, her new life seemed almost too good compared to what she'd gone through on the Island.

She laced up a pair of brown boots that were gifted to her and stepped out of her room. With a quick check in her mirror, she glanced at the scar she'd received from getting hit a year ago. It stretched across her left temple. She ran her finger along the scar, feeling it stripe back to her ear.

Then, ready for the day ahead of her, she kicked into gear. First, early in the morning, she helped tend to the animals on the island. It usually took a few hours, and she had to be done by eleven for her second job, so her mornings started at dawn. In her other job, she helped make lunch at the island's food lines.

The rest of the day was hers for doing whatever she wanted. Making lunch at the food line was her favorite part of the day, partially because she could socialize with everyone on the island as she served dishes, but also because the cafeteria attached to the line had the only public television on the island. She could catch up on news from all over the world while deciding what to put on the menu.

By the time she made it over to the animals, her friend Zac was already feeding them. He was always earlier than her, but that was because he lived right next door to their setup.

"Hey Cal," he said to her, as he was giving the island's cats a couple packages of whatever the cat food was. He had a mud apron on, meaning he was getting ready to deal with some of the livestock. All she had to do now was deal with the dogs.

"Hey, Zac," she greeted back, ringing a cowbell to signal the dogs. One by one, they all came running, tails wagging and tongues flopping. She filled all six bowls with food before making sure all of their water bowls were loaded up as well. The gratitude she got was a few barks and a couple of hand licks. She was always more of a dog person, she decided.

"Got any plans later today?" Zac asked, removing a clingy cat from his leg.

"Never," she laughed. "You know better. I'll probably just do some more reading after lunch."

"Would you want to meet over in the square, then? There's something happening that you definitely won't want to miss."

"That's oddly cryptic," she responded. "What's happening?"

"It's a surprise. Are you down?"

"Sure, I guess. How does around three sound?"

"Sounds great. I'll see you then, Cal!" He zipped away to his other morning task, leaving her to wonder what he was on about. She'd seen the list on the square's bulletin board earlier in the week and hadn't spotted anything that stood out. It was just a normal day.

He must be planning something, she thought.

The notion would have to wait. There were pigs to deal with. They were always dirty and sloppy, which was, in her opinion, the worst combination. The island had an assortment of different pigs, and they would all hang out near one particular pond all day. The area surrounding the pond was, unsurprisingly, solely mud. At dusk, they tracked it all back to their straw pens, creating a mess wherever they went.

"Stinky, dirty pigs," she said, filling the last water trough. They went immediately to the troughs, a noisy stampede of stubby-legged animals.

She popped by the square to check the list again. All it had were normal events and announcements up, including a message about part of the coastal fence that still needed to be fixed.

The coast wasn't really an actual coast. It was a drop off surrounded by a fence that bordered the entire island. She'd learned about it somewhere into her second month, after finally having the will to go out and explore. The island was roughly a mile wide in any direction, and you weren't allowed to wander past the fence, which sat about twenty feet from the drop-off.

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-=[ ]=-

"What's the drop-off?" she asked a man. They were both standing out next to the fence. It sounded a lot like a cliff to the ocean, but she couldn't understand why someone would build a city on a plateau like this. There weren't even any roads in or out.

"The edge of the island, dear," is what the man replied with. "After that, it's a fifteen second fall to the water below us. That's as high as our propellers can keep us without malfunctioning because of moisture and temperature."

"Propellers on an island?"

"You're new, aren't ya?" he smiled. "This isn't just any island, dear, this is a floating island. Some fancy schmancy engineer from the city-state of Carmsborough made it. In any case, it's technically a United States territory."

-=[ ]=-

The shock was profound, and she'd felt sick. She'd been on an island floating over the ocean for a couple of months without even knowing. Her fears were eased after being shown the odds of the island falling. It would take a massive, coordinated attack to take the island out of the air. Eventually, she forgot about the potential danger, and proceeded living day-to-day in a peaceful rhythm.

She walked into the kitchen right on schedule, roughly half an hour earlier than the other kitchen aids would arrive. Just enough time for some cookbook skimming, she decided. She pulled out the Island Select, a cookbook that let people constantly add new or better recipes of their own, and flipped to the back to see the newest entry. It was country-fried steak.

Good thing she'd just set a few in marinade the day before.

By the time the other kitchen aids arrived, the breaded steak was already over the indoor grill, and she'd just unloaded a large sack of potatoes.

"What's for lunch this time?" one of them asked, with brown hair and dull, blue eyes. Her name was Olivia, and she was the most easy-going aide.

"Country-fried steak, potatoes, and green beans," Cal replied, in the process of peeling the skin off thirty potatoes. The television was on one of the American news channels, talking about President Gerald Ford's economic mumbo jumbo. She walked over to the TV and changed the channel to the singular sports network available. Politics was her least favorite topic.

"There was a very intense showdown yesterday between the Cincinnati Reds and the Boston Red Sox as the World Series came to a climactic end," the sports reporter on-screen recapped. "In the conclusion of a very powerful game, the Reds were declared the winner."

"Booo," Cal jeered, putting the potatoes in boiling water. She'd been following baseball for a while and was rooting for the Red Sox, especially considering the heated sixth game they'd had.

-=[ ]=-

A blanket of snow began its peaceful descent as she patiently waited in the square. The clock tower that loomed over her read forty minutes after three. In spite of the fact that she'd been barely waiting for fifteen minutes, her nose felt like falling off, and her breath fogged in front of her. The air had definitely had a sting to it earlier that morning, but now that there was nothing shielding her from the wind, it felt tragic. Other than a distant helicopter noise, waiting for Zac was the only thing distracting her from the nipping cold.

He finally arrived eight minutes before the clock tower chimed four, carrying a decently sized package in his hands.

"I'm sorry that took so long, Cal," he apologized, a steam trail swirling from his mouth into the wind. "I had to get this package from the helicopter."

That explained a lot.

"It's okay," she said. She found herself admiring him, even as he was sweating underneath a winter coat. "What's in the package, if you don't mind me asking?"

"A present," he answered, plopping it into her arms. It was a lot heavier than she expected.

"A present? For what?"

"You've mentioned previously that you don't know when your birthday is. I figured today would be a great day, since it's your one-year anniversary on the island. So, happy birthday."

She was ecstatic to open it as they headed into the cafeteria. The snowfall had just picked up outside, bringing a grim forecast for the next couple of days with it.

The box was wrapped with simple brown paper and a rope-like string, but tearing into it felt almost as satisfying as opening the box that had her new boots in it months ago. Underneath the wrapping was a small television that could easily fit on her desk or dresser.

"I know you like watching the television in here during lunch," he explained, "so I figured a personal one would be the best gift I could think of."

"I love it," she replied, pulling it out of the box. The two knobs on its right side were clean, unlike the one in the cafeteria that was smudged by years of fingers changing the channel. She didn't want to guess how much he paid for it.

"Wanna go help me set it up in my place?" she asked, holding out a hand for him.

"I've got half an hour until I've gotta go back to work," he said. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed her outstretched hand. "Let's do it."

She quickly found out how awkward it is to run with a twenty-pound box in the snow while fighting the wind, but the smile on her face never went away.