Story code: ST-001033
Part 1: The Night Shift
The yellow glow of the 1998 Corolla’s dome light flickered, threatening to plunge the retail parking lot into total darkness. Maya blew into her cupped hands, watching the vapor swirl against the frosted windshield before picking up the red pen again. She had fourteen more essays to get through before dawn. Her knuckles ached with a dull, throbbing stiffness as she scratched a heavy line through a paragraph about The Great Gatsby that was entirely lifted from an online summary. The car’s heater had died three months ago. She kept the engine off to save the half-gallon of gas left in the tank, relying instead on two mismatched thrift-store blankets draped heavily over her shoulders.
Anyone walking past the frost-rimmed windows would see a desperate twenty-six-year-old cramming for midterms. She certainly felt like one. Her spine was permanently curved to match the worn springs of the driver’s seat. She flipped to the next page, her eyes straining in the dim, yellow light, trying to focus on a butchered analysis of the American Dream. The irony was physically painful.
Her phone vibrated violently against the dashboard plastic, rattling a loose piece of trim.
The screen flared blinding white in the dark cabin. It was a mass text message. The sender ID read Provost Richard Vance.
Maya squeezed her eyes shut until the afterimage faded, then leaned forward to read the notification. It was a university-wide alert to the humanities faculty. She was not a student cramming for a deadline. She was Dr. Maya Hastings, Adjunct Professor of Modern Literature, and her boss was texting her at eleven at night.
Mandatory emergency budget alignment meeting, the message read. Tomorrow at 6:00 AM sharp in the Founders Boardroom. Attendance is non-negotiable for all contracted instructional staff.
Maya stared at the timestamp. Six in the morning. That gave her exactly seven hours to finish grading forty-two freshman composition papers, drive to the campus gym to take a sink shower, and put on the one professional blazer she owned that did not smell like exhaust fumes. The university paid her twenty-four hundred dollars a semester per course. It was not enough to cover rent in the city, which was why she spent three nights a week parked between a rusted dumpster and a chain-link fence behind the supercenter.
The phone buzzed a second time. Another text from Vance loaded onto the screen.
Furthermore, due to the aforementioned budget shortfalls, we are implementing an ‘All Hands’ initiative for this weekend’s Benefactors Gala. Catering costs have been eliminated to preserve capital. All adjunct faculty are required to sign up for a two-hour serving shift. Black slacks and white button-downs required. We must show our donors that our faculty is committed to the financial health of this institution.
Maya read the words three times. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as the cold air suddenly felt suffocating.
Richard Vance made eight hundred thousand dollars a year in base salary, plus an annual performance bonus that usually eclipsed a quarter-million. He drove a customized imported sedan to his reserved, heated parking spot. Now, he was commanding his poverty-line professors to act as unpaid waitstaff for the billionaires who funded his bonuses. They were supposed to pass champagne and miniature crab cakes to hedge fund managers while pretending they were not one flat tire away from total ruin.
She set the red pen down. It rolled off the center console and vanished into the dark gap between the seats. She did not reach for it.
The indignity sat heavy in her chest, a physical weight pressing against her ribs. She was expected to stand in the corner of a crystal-chandelier ballroom, holding a silver tray, while the students she taught watched her serve their wealthy parents. If she refused, the administration would simply not renew her contract next semester. Adjuncts were disposable. They had no union, no tenure, no leverage. Vance knew exactly what he was doing. He knew none of them could afford to refuse the directive.
Her fingers hovered over the cracked glass of her screen. The cursor blinked in the empty reply box. The group text included sixty-two other adjuncts, all of them currently sitting in cheap apartments or working second jobs, staring at the exact same demand. A wave of automated replies began to populate the thread.
Understood, Provost Vance.
I will be there.
Signing up for the 8 PM serving shift now.
They were yielding. Every single one of them was submitting out of pure, unadulterated fear. The dome light above Maya finally gave out with a faint pop, plunging the car into absolute darkness, save for the glaring white rectangle of her phone screen illuminating her face. She typed a single letter. Then she deleted it.
A third message appeared, this one a direct text from the Dean of Arts, tagging Maya individually.
Dr. Hastings, we have you down for the VIP coat check and tray service from seven until midnight, please confirm receipt immediately.
Maya pressed her thumb against the glass.
The yellow glow of the 1998 Corolla’s dome light flickered, threatening to plunge the retail parking lot into total darkness. Maya blew into her cupped hands, watching the vapor swirl against the frosted windshield before picking up the red pen again. She had fourteen more essays to get through before dawn. Her knuckles ached with a dull, throbbing stiffness as she scratched a heavy line through a paragraph about The Great Gatsby that was entirely lifted from an online summary. The car’s heater had died three months ago. She kept the engine off to save the half-gallon of gas left in the tank, relying instead on two mismatched thrift-store blankets draped heavily over her shoulders.
Anyone walking past the frost-rimmed windows would see a desperate twenty-six-year-old cramming for midterms. She certainly felt like one. Her spine was permanently curved to match the worn springs of the driver’s seat. She flipped to the next page, her eyes straining in the dim, yellow light, trying to focus on a butchered analysis of the American Dream. The irony was physically painful.
Her phone vibrated violently against the dashboard plastic, rattling a loose piece of trim.
The screen flared blinding white in the dark cabin. It was a mass text message. The sender ID read Provost Richard Vance.
Maya squeezed her eyes shut until the afterimage faded, then leaned forward to read the notification. It was a university-wide alert to the humanities faculty. She was not a student cramming for a deadline. She was Dr. Maya Hastings, Adjunct Professor of Modern Literature, and her boss was texting her at eleven at night.
Mandatory emergency budget alignment meeting, the message read. Tomorrow at 6:00 AM sharp in the Founders Boardroom. Attendance is non-negotiable for all contracted instructional staff.
Maya stared at the timestamp. Six in the morning. That gave her exactly seven hours to finish grading forty-two freshman composition papers, drive to the campus gym to take a sink shower, and put on the one professional blazer she owned that did not smell like exhaust fumes. The university paid her twenty-four hundred dollars a semester per course. It was not enough to cover rent in the city, which was why she spent three nights a week parked between a rusted dumpster and a chain-link fence behind the supercenter.
The phone buzzed a second time. Another text from Vance loaded onto the screen.
Furthermore, due to the aforementioned budget shortfalls, we are implementing an ‘All Hands’ initiative for this weekend’s Benefactors Gala. Catering costs have been eliminated to preserve capital. All adjunct faculty are required to sign up for a two-hour serving shift. Black slacks and white button-downs required. We must show our donors that our faculty is committed to the financial health of this institution.
Maya read the words three times. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as the cold air suddenly felt suffocating.
Richard Vance made eight hundred thousand dollars a year in base salary, plus an annual performance bonus that usually eclipsed a quarter-million. He drove a customized imported sedan to his reserved, heated parking spot. Now, he was commanding his poverty-line professors to act as unpaid waitstaff for the billionaires who funded his bonuses. They were supposed to pass champagne and miniature crab cakes to hedge fund managers while pretending they were not one flat tire away from total ruin.
She set the red pen down. It rolled off the center console and vanished into the dark gap between the seats. She did not reach for it.
The indignity sat heavy in her chest, a physical weight pressing against her ribs. She was expected to stand in the corner of a crystal-chandelier ballroom, holding a silver tray, while the students she taught watched her serve their wealthy parents. If she refused, the administration would simply not renew her contract next semester. Adjuncts were disposable. They had no union, no tenure, no leverage. Vance knew exactly what he was doing. He knew none of them could afford to refuse the directive.
Her fingers hovered over the cracked glass of her screen. The cursor blinked in the empty reply box. The group text included sixty-two other adjuncts, all of them currently sitting in cheap apartments or working second jobs, staring at the exact same demand. A wave of automated replies began to populate the thread.
Understood, Provost Vance.
I will be there.
Signing up for the 8 PM serving shift now.
They were yielding. Every single one of them was submitting out of pure, unadulterated fear. The dome light above Maya finally gave out with a faint pop, plunging the car into absolute darkness, save for the glaring white rectangle of her phone screen illuminating her face. She typed a single letter. Then she deleted it.
A third message appeared, this one a direct text from the Dean of Arts, tagging Maya individually.
Dr. Hastings, we have you down for the VIP coat check and tray service from seven until midnight, please confirm receipt immediately.
Maya pressed her thumb against the glass.