Don't Ghost

In the dream the rubber pad is the size of a landing platform.

I bring the stamp down like a docking clamp. Ink blooms. A ticket prints itself into existence with my name already wrong?Captain of Nothing, Gate Three, expires when you blink.

[STAMP]

Again. Harder. The pad doesn't care about bravery. Pads only care about pressure.

TRING.

One alarm. Not a twin. Not theater. The dream collapses into ordinary wood and ordinary light and the pocket card on the desk with three kid-sized war words still drying in my head:

Signed. Show up. Don't ghost.

Thursday.

Next week's louder ask, wearing school-day shoes. Tuesday's window already happened?smaller line, shaky wrist, survived without fireworks. Today is the one that scared me when the ink was wet: midweek, visible, no fair noise to hide behind.

I sit up before the blankets can renegotiate. Feet on floor. Scar-stitched bag by the chair, zipper ugly and working. Invisible Seat tugs from the corner like an old treaty asking for one more rent payment in disappearance.

"Not today," I tell the corner. Quiet. Not a speech. A refusal with feet already moving.

***

Kitchen steam. Pancakes. Mom's spatula clicks once?census complete, kid present on purpose.

Dad's newspaper dips. "Ordinary orbit?"

"Booth," I say. "Ticket window. Afternoon. The loud one."

He doesn't decorate it. "Then eat like someone who has to stand still later."

I sit for the whole plate. Standing would be a tiny abort dressed as efficiency. Imagination tries to turn syrup into fuel lines feeding a customs gate on a spaceport rim. I let it run twelve seconds?amber warnings cooling toward green under a fake hangar roof?then park it. Refuge. Not replacement.

Mom packs an apple and touches the bag scar with two fingers. Inspection without lecture.

"Ugly stitches," she says.

"Working stitches," I finish. Same report. Still true.

[ZIP]

The zipper clears the full track. Scar itches under my thumb. Proof still does that.

***

Bus. Sky the color of old chrome. Leo has already saved the seat. He looks at my face the way engineering looks at a system that finally entered the real test window.

"Thursday shift," he says. Not a question. "Tuesday was dress rehearsal. Today the line gets opinions."

"I write nothing. You write nothing," I say. My voice tries to shrink into the window glass. I don't let it. "I just stand there and do the job."

Leo's grin is small and dangerous in the best way. "Copy. Co-pilot orbit only. Courtyard. Not the pen. Not the stamp. Not your name again."

"I know." The difference still matters more than any thruster upgrade we ever argued about on his carpet.

Ryan boards two stops later with weather attached?laughs, cologne, a joke already spinning up in the chamber. He clocks my bag scar, clocks Leo, clocks me sitting like I plan to arrive somewhere.

"Cleanup captain graduates to customer service?" he calls, bright for nearby ears. "Try not to vanish when somebody asks for a refund."

A few soft laughs. Old heat climbs my neck. Invisible Seat whispers that the bathroom at school still has excellent tile for private sims.

Leo's shoe bumps mine. Docking reminder. Not a rescue speech.

"Name's still Dave," I say, quiet, maintenance-volume. "And I'm still showing up."

The laughs thin. Underfed again. Ryan smiles the weather smile like he can wait. Forecasts are patient.

Maya, two seats ahead, pastel notebook open to a font she will argue about later, glances back once. Half a second. Soft missile still mid-flight. I'll take half.

***

School hallway. Designer backpacks. Floor polish that smells like money pretending to be clean. My bag is still mine?scar and all?and nobody applauds the repair. Fine. Applause was never the mission. Presence is.

Between first and second period my feet try the long route past the quiet courtyard corner where Invisible Seat used to collect rent. Soft escape. Old treaty.

I take the short route.

Ms. Carter's door is open. She sees me on time with homework clipped, and her nod is a continuity ping. I sit. I write. Numbers behave if I refuse to feed them drama. In the margin I almost sketch a stamp. I erase it. Ryan doesn't need captions.

[RING]

Cafeteria noise like a crowded hangar. Leo gets trays. I stay in the open until the tray is empty?not counting like a thief, just refusing to leave early because leaving early feels like practicing ghost.

Amber passes with ticket-booth kids, hair clipped, tray half-full. She doesn't cheer. She doesn't pity. She just says, soft enough for me and loud enough for truth, "Window at last lunch bell. Don't ghost."

"I won't," I say, and this time it doesn't sound as thin as signup ink. "I'll be there."

Her eyebrows lift a millimeter?surprise filed as evidence, not spectacle. "Okay. Tuesday counted. Thursday counts harder."

Ryan, two tables over, hears enough. He doesn't stand. Weather can travel seated. "Live feed starts after lunch," he announces to nobody who asked. Fountain kids snicker on cue.

I look at my tray until the snicker runs out of fuel. Then I finish the apple Mom packed like it is part of the shift kit.

***

[BELL]

Last lunch bell. Hallway empties toward classes and toward the office glass where the ticket window lives?a half-door counter, a chained stamp, a roll of tickets the color of cheap sunlight, a cash box that looks too serious for a school that already smells expensive.

Amber is already there with another booth kid sorting stubs. She sees me arrive with the scar-stitched bag still on my shoulder and doesn't say I told you so. She just tips her chin at the gap beside her.

"Apron," she says, and hands me a canvas strip that has seen a hundred nervous hands. "You stamp. I take money. He?" she nods at the other kid "?hands the tickets out. Rotate if your brain melts."

Leo hangs back at the courtyard rail, three steps of visible orbit. He could cross the distance and invent a reason to stand at my elbow. He doesn't. Pride doesn't need to steal the burn.

I tie the apron. The knot is ugly. Working. Same report as stitches.

[STAMP]

Test press on scrap paper. The ink pad smells like gym dust and old fairs. In my skull the Vanguard flares?customs gate, scanning beams, alien visa, freeze authorized, bathroom tile, decide tomorrow even though tomorrow already spent its coin on signup day.

I see Ch6 me aborting mid-brave sentence.

I see Ch10 me taking the far bins.

I see Tuesday-of-ink me writing Don't ghost while Ryan watched for bail.

I bring the stamp down on the scrap. Clean oval. Ordinary. Earned.

"You're live," Amber says.

The line arrives like weather with legs.

***

First kid is young, polite, holding a wrinkled permission slip like a treaty. I stamp. Hand the ticket. He says thanks to the counter, not to my face. Fine. The counter is doing the job with me.

Second kid is a fountain regular who snickered for Ryan on signup day. He looks at my name badge sticker Amber peels onto my apron?DAVE, block letters, no glow-up?and smirks.

"Wait. Invisible Seat does tickets now?"

Heat. Sleeve tug from the inside. Soft exit still available behind the cash box if I invent a paper jam.

Amber doesn't speak for me. Leo doesn't move from the rail. The stamp sits in my hand like a tiny irreversible tool.

"Name's Dave," I say, and stamp his ticket harder than necessary. Ink blooms. "Next."

His smirk flickers. Not defeated. Underfed. He takes the ticket and leaves with less joke than he brought. A couple kids behind him go quiet in the useful way?quiet that watches work instead of weather.

Third through seventh are ordinary: sports tickets, club night, a teacher who needs three for chaperones. My wrist learns the rhythm. Stamp. Tear. Pass. Count aloud once when the cash box confuses me; Amber corrects without humiliation. Correction is also contact.

Maya arrives with a pastel flyer stack and a font emergency that is somehow everybody's problem. She sees me in the apron, sees the stamp mid-air, and mutters toward the glass, "Readable. Still less pastel than mine." Soft missile confirmed. She pins the flyer and flees before friendship can file paperwork.

A kid from cleanup orbit?gloves memory, far bins?slides up and says, "Hey. You stayed Friday. Respect." Then he buys a ticket like respect is not a speech. I'll take it.

Ryan eventually drifts past with two friends and a cologne weather front. He doesn't join the line. He just performs for it.

"Careful," he calls. "If the stamp sticks, he might disappear into the ink."

A laugh. Smaller than the fair. Sharper because my hands are occupied and my feet are planted where people can point.

I could invent a dreadnought comeback.

I don't.

I stamp the next ticket in the actual line?a quiet girl who didn't ask for theater?and say toward Ryan without looking up, "Line's here. Weather's optional."

Amber's mouth quirks. The other booth kid snorts once before he can stop himself. Ryan's smile holds, then thins. He walks on. Forecast delayed, not canceled.

Invisible Seat still tugs. Mid-shift, during a lull, my brain offers the courtyard corner like a soft bed. I could ask Amber for water and never return. Ghost with good manners.

I stay behind the counter and wipe the stamp pad instead.

Imagination upgrades the window into a spaceport customs gate for forty beautiful seconds?amber lights, green clearance, alien stamps clicking like applause. Then I shut the hatch with a breath. Refuge. Not replacement. The real kids in front of me are not NPCs. They are the mission.

***

Near the end of the window hour the line thins. My wrist aches. Apron smells like ink and nerves. Leo is still at the rail, pretending to read a book he is definitely not reading. Co-pilot. Not crutch.

A little kid asks if the stamp hurts the ticket. I show him a gentle press. He nods like I taught him physics. Nobody films it. Nobody gives me a fountain nickname upgrade.

Ms. Carter passes the office glass off-path, spots me working, and tips two fingers the way she does when ownership looks different in gloves?or aprons. Continuity ping. Then she's gone. Adults don't need to narrate every click toward green.

Amber checks the cash box. Counts. Nods. "You didn't ghost."

Three words. Optional still true this morning. Trap still possible. Presence answered it.

"I showed up," I say. Better than thin. Open channel with throttle held steady.

She peels the DAVE sticker off my apron carefully, like evidence she might need later, then sticks it back on crooked. "Keep it for next Tuesday. Same window. Same rule."

Next Tuesday. A future with my name in it again?not signup ink, return ink.

Leo finally crosses the three steps when the chain goes on the stamp. He doesn't take the apron. He doesn't rewrite the log. He just bumps my shoulder.

"Visible shift: pass. Ryan weather: survived. Ghost risk: monitored and unpaid."

"Monitored is how systems stay honest," I say, stealing his line from signup week because some engineering deserves remix.

He grins. "Copy."

***

[SQUEAK]

Home gate. Mom smells school and ink, not trash. Dad's newspaper is already half-lowered.

"Ticket window?" he asks.

"Worked it," I say. "Stamped. Stayed. Didn't ghost."

Mom's smile is quiet and dangerous in the Mom way. "Ugly courage. Working courage."

I show them the bag scar again for no reason except proof likes witnesses. Dad nods once. Maintenance report accepted. I almost tell them about Ryan's weather and Maya's soft missile and the quiet girl who didn't need theater. I tell them the part that matters in kid size: I stood where people could see me fail or finish, and I finished the hour.

Night. Pocket card. I check the lines. Visible. Bag. Homework. Booth.

Under Signed. Show up. Don't ghost. I write, small:

Shift done. Return Tuesday.

Four more kid-sized war words.

Imagination tries one last upgrade?booth into beacon, stamp into treaty seal, amber to green as fireworks. I let it play for a minute, then shut the fantasy hatch. Refuge. Not replacement.

Invisible Seat still sits in the corner of the room like an old chair that knows my shape. It doesn't vanish because I worked a window. Systems don't delete that easy. They just lose another rent payment when you stop paying with disappearance.

For a second, long-range and thin, I catch a distant signal: someday getting out of bed might feel heavier than a stamp, and laziness might wear adult clothes. Not tonight's boss fight. Just weather on a far scanner.

I set one alarm.

In my head the Vanguard doesn't roar. It holds course toward another midweek counter where the line will be real again and weather will wait with cologne.

The war against my own laziness isn't a fireworks episode.

It's this: stitch, sit, stay, study, sign, show up, stamp, return.

amber to green?not a leap. A click with ink on the wrist and an apron knot still ugly.

I turn off the lamp and let Thursday's irreversible smallness be enough fuel for sleep.

Tuesday will ask again.

I'll try to wake up for that too.