Only the old oaks still held their leaves—brown, withered husks that rustled in the wind. The rest of the trees were bare sticks pointing to a perpetually gray sky. The rain turned cold and biting, two or three degrees shy of being able to crystallize into snowflakes. Instead of covering the landscape in a white blanket, it turned roads into rivers and unpaved surfaces into mud puddles. He got regular views of the outside world these days. The “on this side” people had a break room with windows. Best that Michael could tell, the large panes of dirty glass did little except give his coworkers something to look at besides each other. Little conversation happened that didn’t relate to work. In that regard, the “on this side” people reminded him uncomfortably of robots. His transition hadn’t gone smoothly, and the distrusting looks and whispered remarks were taking their toll. Michael had expected such behavior from the hourly workers.
