Mjay

Mjay ran a thumbnail down the third fold, the way Moll had shown them, and reached for the next sheet. Behind them the stencil drum went round. Once every turn it squeaked, high and thin, like a door asking a question.

Nobody had meant for them to be here. Minutes after reaching the Alley they had left the bright main street, followed some steps down under a shed thick with pasted names, and found a room that smelled of ink, with one very tired Original at a crank. Moll had looked up and said, “Finally. Table. Three folds, edges kissing, no gaps.” Then they had gone back to cranking, and Mjay had sat down before they could explain.

That was the trouble. They liked it. They liked the long table, the stacks going from flat to folded, and the squeak keeping time under the low tight Hum in the floor. It felt good to have a job on their very first morning, and to be good at it.

The squeak came late. It was only a beat, a little hitch in the turn. Moll’s hand slowed to meet it without looking, and their lips moved, the way someone counts stairs in the dark.

“You’re not from the Tin Room, are you,” Moll said.

“No,” Mjay said. “I just came down the steps.”

Moll looked at the folded pile, then at Mjay, then at the pile again. “Well, you fold like you are. Keep going.”

Halfway through the next sheet, Mjay’s thumb dragged wet ink across the top, one long grey smear right through the words LOUD MINUTE.

“Sorry, I can redo...”

“Don’t you dare.” Moll plucked it up and held it to the bulb. “Loud on purpose. That one goes on top.”

Mjay put it on top and felt warm right through.

The door banged. A Sheep came down the steps with a basket of earplugs on one arm, and laughter came down after them. “Ffion! Did you bring plugs for the paper too?”

“Are they ready?” Ffion asked. Their ears had gone pink under the wool. “I promised the Tin Room I’d have them round every room today. Everyone’s asking. Half the Alley wants my earplugs now, since the Hush started saying quiet keeps the Shapes off. I’d like to show them something loud.”

“Half done,” said Moll, and kept cranking.

Doing it Moll’s way, the rest would take all afternoon. Mjay looked at Ffion standing there with the basket, waiting, while somebody upstairs called down to ask if they’d brought a pillow. Then Mjay looked at Moll, who might say stay if the job was done right, or might never say it at all.

Mjay stood and pushed the folded half into Ffion’s arms. Then they scooped the flat sheets under their own elbow.

“I’ll fold the rest as we walk,” they told Moll. “Your way. Every one.”

They took the stapled zine out of their pocket and set it on the table beside the drum.

“I’m coming back for that.”

Moll looked at the zine, and at Mjay, and didn’t say yes. The drum went round. The squeak landed a beat late, and Moll’s lips moved again.

Mjay followed Ffion up the steps, creasing a sheet against the wall, and wondered what number Moll was counting to.