The cold iron of the assembly floor

Dear Delyara, Thirty-one years on the line, stamping door panels out of sheet steel until my ears ring even when I’m sitting in my own quiet living room. Today, some smooth-faced consultant from corporate walked through the bay in a high-visibility vest that didn't have a single spot of grease on it. He stood behind my station with a digital stopwatch, recording how many seconds it took me to lift the panel, wipe the flange, and lock the die. He didn't ask my name. He didn't look at the brace on my knee or the burn scars on my forearms. He just made a little mark on his tablet and walked on to the next man. The hot, blinding rage that boiled up in my throat almost made me drop the iron bar right through the pneumatic press. We aren't human beings to them; we’re just friction slowing down their quarterly projections.