Clara Vance stepped past the heavy asbestos aprons before Julian could catch her sleeve.
“The brass floor is groaning beneath my shoes,” Clara murmured aloud into the hot air. “The draft smells like molten lead, machine oil, and charred paper. Fifty feet of empty air below me.”
“Clara, get back behind the table!” Julian hissed from the shelter of the steel micrometer bench.
“No,” Clara said softly into the collar of her sweater. “He won’t listen to you, Jules.”
“You’re a clerk. To him, you’re just another bad customer with a pencil.”
“Clara!” Elena called out, her fingers tightening on a roll of sterile gauze.
“Those overhead nozzles are pressurized at eighty pounds per square inch! One splash of five-hundred-degree type-metal will take your face off!”
“She’s right, kid!” Mac barked, keeping his iron tire-thumper raised to deflect stray lead droplets. “Don’t play hero on an open catwalk!”
