The logging trucks came on Thursdays.
This was not a fact Wren had ever needed to track deliberately. It had accumulated the way most compound knowledge accumulated for someone who had worked a dawn shift for four years: through repetition, through the body learning the week’s rhythms before the mind had occasion to name them. Thursdays meant the delivery bay on the compound’s north side received two or three flatbed loads of processed timber, bound eventually for the construction firm’s staging area. Thursdays meant the logging crew’s foreman—a Delta named Cass, broad-shouldered and reliable, who had been making this run for as long as Wren had been in the compound—signed the intake forms with Edric’s supply clerk and was gone before noon service.
What Thursdays did not usually mean was
