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"Not Today" story captures the modern worker’s dilemma: the pressure to prioritize productivity over relationships. But the fire serves as an equalizer—destroying the illusion of job security and illuminating the importance of personal connection.

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Not Today

I clocked in at 6:58 a.m., the punch clock stamping my card with its usual metallic clack—a small sound that marked the beginning of another long shift at the Riverside Motor Plant. The factory floor hummed with the familiar chorus of conveyor belts, pneumatic hisses, and the low grumble of machines waking up for the day. We were already behind on our quota for the week thanks to a stubborn malfunction in Line 3, but today felt like the day we’d finally catch up.

I had barely slipped on my gloves when I saw Burgess—“Burges” to everyone on the floor—charging toward me with a look that didn’t match the start of any normal shift.

“Man, I need you,” he blurted before I even said good morning. His voice was shaky, his eyes wild. “The bank’s gonna foreclose on my place. They gave me the notice yesterday. I need a big loan. Today. I didn’t know who else to come to.”

For a moment, the noise of the factory seemed to fade, leaving nothing but his words hanging in the air between us. Burgess wasn’t the type to ask for help—not with money, not with anything. So for him to come to me meant he was desperate.

But the supervisor was already shouting for everyone to get in position, urgency cracking in his tone. We were behind, and Line 3 waited for no one.

“Burges… not today,” I said, tightening my gloves. “We’re swamped. They’re watching us like hawks. Let me get through the day and we’ll talk after, okay?”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he muttered, “sure.”
He turned and walked off, shoulders tight with anger and disappointment. I watched him go for half a second before the sound of gears snapping into motion reminded me: work first, everything else after.

I stepped onto the assembly line, the rhythm of the station pulling me back into its grip. Ten minutes. That’s all we managed—ten calm, productive minutes where it felt like we might finally get ahead.

Then the lights flickered.

Then they snapped off.

A split second later, the crackle of electricity tore through the dark, followed by a burst of orange light from across the floor. An electric fire erupted, spitting sparks like a furious animal. Someone shouted, alarms blared, and the entire plant lurched into chaos.

“Evacuate! Evacuate!”

We poured out of the building in a mass of boots and panic, the air outside cold against the heat that had just filled the plant. Smoke curled out of the loading bay doors as the fire crew rushed past us.

I stood in the parking lot with the rest of the shift, the morning sun just creeping over the rooftops. Ten minutes of work. That’s all the factory got out of us before shutting down—indefinitely, the supervisor said. No idea when we’d be called back.

No work. No pay. No quota. No “not today.”

I looked out over the lot and spotted Burgess leaning against his old pickup, head in his hands.

Suddenly my own problems felt a little smaller.

Maybe today wasn’t going to go the way I planned. But maybe it wasn’t too late to change my answer.