March 18.

The ceiling dripped again last night. Not water this time — something oily, amber-colored, smells like machine lubricant mixed with something organic. Kael says it's runoff from the maintenance corridor above us. I put a bowl under it and went back to sleep. This morning the bowl was full and the liquid had separated into two layers: the amber oil on top, and something clear and slightly viscous underneath. I poured it down the drain. I did not taste it. I want to make that clear to anyone reading this later: I did not taste it.

Work was twelve hours at the sorting line. My hands are shaking as I write this — not exhaustion, not caffeine, just the repetitive motion thing the clinic told me about last year. They said I needed to rest my hands for two weeks. I said I needed to eat for two weeks. We looked at each other and understood that both things were true and only one was going to happen.

The new girl on the line — Priya, I think, though she hasn't given her real name and I haven't asked — she's fast. Not augmented-fast, just young-and-desperate fast. She sorts at maybe 140% of my rate and doesn't complain. I want to tell her to slow down because she's setting a pace the algorithm will expect her to maintain, and in three months her hands will shake too. But I remember being that young and that fast and thinking the older workers were just slow. She'll learn. Everybody learns.

Kael brought home a fish tonight. Not a real fish — one of those engineered mood fish from the market. He spent Φ45 on it. I wanted to be angry about Φ45 but it's sitting in a jar on the shelf and it's glowing this soft gold color and I think it's the most beautiful thing in this apartment. We watched it for an hour. Neither of us said anything. We didn't need to.

The ceiling is dripping again.