The Gravity of Hope

AVA POV

I wake up the same way every morning—tied down and terrified.

The cargo straps bite into my chest, waist, and legs. Three across, two down. Every night, I strap myself to this bed like cargo waiting to be shipped, because that's what happens when your Anchor decides to quit: you float away while you sleep, and nobody finds you until you're a frozen corpse in the upper atmosphere.

My wrist beeps. Forty-five percent stability.

I lie still, listening to the hum. It's changed lately—higher pitched, more desperate. Like it knows it's dying.

The ceiling above me is water-stained and cracked, mapped with brown veins that spread wider every month. If I stare long enough, they look like rivers. Like the world is bleeding from the inside out.

What if tonight's the night it stops working completely?

The thought comes every morning, sharp and cold. I shove it down.

Left strap. Right strap. Waist. Chest. My fingers work the buckles automatically, muscle memory from ten years of practice. When my feet finally touch the floor, relief floods through me so hard I have to close my eyes.

Still grounded.

I check my wrist. Forty-three percent now.

Two percent in five minutes. That's new.

The bathroom mirror is cracked down the middle, splitting my reflection into two mismatched halves. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair that hasn't seen a decent wash in a week because water costs money I don't have. I'm too thin—skipping meals to save for Anchor repairs will do that.

I splash water on my face from the bucket in the corner. Running water is a Grounder luxury. We get rations delivered every three days, and if you waste it, you wait.

The coveralls smell like machine oil and desperation, but they're mine. I strap on my safety cables—two around my waist, one across my chest. My "just in case" system. The clips are worn smooth from use.

Breakfast is a protein bar that expired three months ago. It tastes like cardboard and chemicals, but it's calories.

The Floater district looks different at dawn. Quieter. Most people haven't unclipped from their overnight tethers yet. I pass Mrs. Rivera struggling with her harness, her hands shaking too badly to work the buckle. I stop and help her, even though I'm already late.

"Thank you, dear," she says. Her Anchor beeps weakly. Sixty percent, maybe. She's got time.

I don't.

The Drift Memorial takes up the entire south wall of Building Six. Hundreds of photos, faded and water-damaged, of people who floated away. The wall grows every year.

Mom's photo is in the third row, fifth from the left. I've memorized the position. She's smiling in it—actually smiling, like she didn't know what was coming. Like she thought her Anchor would save her.

I press my palm against her face. "Ten years, Mom. Still grounded."

The words come out automatic. I don't know what else to say anymore.

Drift-No-More Repairs smells like ozone and broken dreams. Mr. Hendricks is already shouting when I walk in, his face red, veins bulging in his neck.

"We can't fix miracles, lady! Your Anchor's twenty years old! You want a miracle, go pray at the Academy!"

The customer—middle-aged, tired, desperate—clutches her Anchor like it's a child. "Please. I just need another month—"

"I need another month too," Hendricks snaps. "I need rent money and a new liver, but we don't always get what we need."

I slip past them to my workbench. The pile of broken Anchors is taller than yesterday. I pick up the first one—F-Class, standard issue, corroded connectors, fried power cell. Fixable.

My hands move fast, precise. Unscrew the casing, swap the cell, recalibrate the gravity field. Every Anchor I fix is one less person who'll float away like Mom.

It's not enough. It's never enough.

At lunch, I climb to the roof. My hands shake the entire way up. Heights and I have a complicated relationship—I'm terrified of them, but I can't stop looking.

The Gravity Academy rises in the distance like a beautiful lie. White towers, pristine and untouchable, floating above the city on their own gravity field. No tethers. No fear. Just endless, perfect control.

"Someday," I whisper.

But I know the truth. No one from my district has ever been accepted. The Academy only takes Grounders—people born with perfect Anchors and perfect futures.

People who'll never know what it's like to tie yourself down just to survive the night.

I'm halfway through repairing Mrs. Pak's Anchor when mine starts screaming.

The beeping shifts from steady to frantic. Thirty percent stability. DANGER ZONE.

My stomach drops.

I grab the workbench, but my feet are already lifting. The floor falls away, inch by inch. Panic floods through me, hot and familiar. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Something hits my chest—a cable. Hendricks.

"Clip in before you drift, kid!"

My fingers fumble with the clasp. Click. The tension catches, pulls me down. My feet touch the floor again. Thirty-five percent. Barely safe.

Every customer in the shop is staring.

Hendricks pulls me into the back room. His face is grim.

"Ava, that Anchor's dying. You need to replace it."

"I can't afford a new one."

"Then you need to stop coming to work." His voice is flat. Final. "I can't have you floating away on my shift. Insurance doesn't cover employee drift."

The words hit like a punch. No job. No money. No Anchor repairs.

No life.

I walk home in a daze. The Academy towers glow in the distance, mocking me.

Two weeks. That's what the tech said last time. Two weeks before complete failure.

I have two weeks to figure out how to stay alive.

The straps feel tighter tonight.