Free Second Shift - Order (Part 7 of the Silo Series) (Wool) by Hugh Howey

narrowed his eyes and glanced from his daughter to Donald. Anna seemed to take it as a question.
    “He thinks he can help,” she said. “We both think it’s best for him to work down here with me. At least until we make some progress.”
    Donald turned to her in shock. Thurman said nothing.
    “We’ll need another computer,” she added. “If you bring one down, I can set it up.”
    That, Donald liked the sound of.
    “And another cot, of course,” Anna added with a smile.

Silo 18

Hush-a-bye baby
    in the Up Top
    When the wind blows,
    the cradle will rock.
    When the dust comes,
    the cradle will fall.
    And down will come baby,
    Silo and All.
    -Jennifer Plume, age 17

•10•
     
    Mission slunk away after the fight with the farmers as the rest of the porters scattered. He stole a few hours of sleep at the upper waystation, his nose numb and lips throbbing from a blow he’d suffered. Tossing and turning, too restless to stay put, he rose in the dim-time and realized it was early yet to go to the Nest. The Crow would still be asleep. And so he headed to the cafeteria for a sunrise and a decent breakfast, the coroner’s bonus burning in his pockets the way his knuckles burned from their scrapes.
    He nursed his aches with a welcomed hot meal, eating with those coming off a midnight shift, and watched the clouds boil and come to life across the hills. The towering husks in the distance—the Crow called them buildings—were the first to catch the rising sun. It was a sign that the world would wake one more day. His birthday, Mission realized. And he regretted coming up there. He left his dishes on the table, a chit for whoever cleaned after him, and tried not to think of cleaning at all. Instead, he rushed down the eight flights of stairs before the silo fully woke. He headed toward the Nest, feeling not a day older at all.
    Familiar words greeted him at the landing of the eighth. There, above the door, rather than a level number it read:
    The Crow’s Nest
    The words were painted in bright and blocky letters. They followed the outlines from years and generations prior, color piled on color, letters crooked and bent from more than one young hand’s involvement. Where the paint had gone outside the lines, silo gray had been slapped on top to try and cover it up.
    Mission remembered helping with the latest coat. Another would be needed soon. Already, a prior color from another age could be seen through the blues and purples that he and his friends had chosen. And where the blue paint was thin and the color beneath had chipped away, a third layer could be seen beyond. It was like peering into the past. For all he knew, there could be five or six layers hidden beneath. The children of the silo came and went and left their marks with bristles, but the Old Crow remained.
    Her nest comprised the nursery, day school, and classrooms that served the Up Top. She had been perched there for longer than any alive could remember. Some said she was as old as the silo itself, but Mission knew that was just a legend. He’d heard it said that the limits to the silo were the limits to life, that no one could ever reach a hundred and fifty in age. This, he believed. His uncle had been one third that when he died. Most people never reached half the levels in age. But the Crow wasn’t most people.
    He passed beneath the door and reached up to slap the paint as he went. A small hop where terrible leaps were once needed. He remembered employing a ladder before that, spilling a bucket of blue paint, hearing the complaints from Fourteen as it dribbled down. Maybe that’s where the idea for the plasticwrap paintbombs had come from. It must’ve been. Kids playing at the wars their fathers had fought. Screams fading to laughter over time—warlike grunts into giggles—chasing each other with imaginary weapons and kitchen utensils, fighting over who got to be Security and who had to play the bad guys.
    Mission remembered how exciting those