The Mustaches hovered. Khakis and clipboards. Counting down time. Lost production.

He needed the job. Medical benefits. A twice pregnant wife.

Guard bolted back into place. His finger hovered, balked above the start button. The press bucked and settled into a steady metallic heartbeat. A hollow thumping matching his own.

Randy Simons spends his days working the floor of an ammunition factory and his nights at the keyboard. His work can be found in The Los Angeles Review, Whitefish Review, and Memoir, among other places. He lives in Idaho.