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The sun bled auburn across the sky, a tired artist painting the end of the day. Down in the slow seaside town, most folk were pulling curtains shut and locking up shop doors with rusty clicks. The main attraction, Starr Park, was spitting out the last of its day-trippers, who trudged towards the highway or shuffled into the dingy 1-star motels clustered near the docks. The gates groaned shut, a final, echoing clap.
For Maisie and Meg, though, the day wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. Their jobs inside the park were one thing, helping people navigate the attractions, Maisie tending to the movie projectors and the occasional fire that would break out from the old popcorn machine, while Meg would fight the occasional Kaiju going on a rampage.
But their unofficial duty, the one that stretched long after the sun dipped below the horizon, was different. It was for the town, for the people who lived here year-round, in old Brick houses that leaned and shops that sagged.
Their work started subtly, blending into the twilight. They spotted a car pulled over near the old general store. The place was a relic, more woodworm and spider silk than structure, but it still somehow sold milk and bait. A man was kicking feebly at a flat tire.
Maisie adjusted the straps on her practical, slightly-worn backpack. "Looks like someone needs a pit crew," she said, her voice calm and steady.
Meg, ever the pragmatist, was already scanning the scene. "Yeah. And he doesn't look like he knows which end of the wrench is which."
They walked over. The man looked up, startled, then his eyes flicked over them, recognizing the familiar, slightly-out-of-place figures from the edge of town. Not quite neighbours, but not strangers either. Everyone knew them, but didn't really get to know them.
"Evening," Maisie said with a small, polite smile. "Flat tire?"
"Uh, yeah," the man mumbled, looking uncomfortable.
"Right", Maisie thought. They weren't park employees now. Just... them. Helping.
"Got a spare?" Meg asked, already kneeling to peek under the car. Her movements were quick, efficient.
"In the back," he said.
Maisie retrieved the spare while Meg expertly jimmied off the hubcap with a tool she seemed to conjure from a pocket. There wasn't much talk. Maisie worked the jack, smooth and controlled. Meg handled the lug nuts with practiced ease, swapping the flat for the spare tire faster than most mechanics older than her.
They tightened the last nut. Maisie lowered the jack. Meg kicked the tire gently to test it.
"You should get that flat fixed tomorrow," Maisie advised.
"Right. Thanks," the man said, his words flat, almost dismissive. He didn't meet their eyes properly. Just nodded and got back into his car.
No 'thanks'. No handshake. No offer of a few coins. Just a quick departure.
Maisie and Meg watched him drive away, the car's exhaust sputtering.
"Another satisfied customer," Meg deadpanned, wiping her hands on her jeans.
Maisie sighed softly. "It's fine, Meg. It needed doing." She looked at the general store, a lightbulb flickering weakly inside, moths dancing around it. "At least we saved him from trying to do it himself in the dark next to the bug palace."
They moved on. A few blocks over, near the only gas station that still had lights on intermittently, a young attendant was finishing his shift. His own beat-up car was waiting by the pump, empty tank. He looked exhausted.
"Hey," Meg called out, heading towards him. "Need a hand?"
He blinked, surprised. "Oh, uh, hey. Yeah, kinda. Been on my feet all day, just wanna get home."
Maisie stepped up to the pump. The old thing whined and shuddered when she lifted the nozzle. "Go unlock your car," she told the attendant gently. "We can fill it up."
He hesitated for a second, then gave a grateful, though brief, nod. He looked more relieved than thankful. He went to his car.
Meg held the flap open while Maisie navigated the ancient pump controls. "This thing sounds like it's about to chew the nozzle off," Meg muttered, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale gasoline.
"Just hold it steady," Maisie replied, focused. "It needs a good kick sometimes." She nudged the side panel with her boot. The pump sprang to life with a sudden clatter.
They filled the tank. The attendant came back, looking slightly less weary.
"Thanks," he said. It wasn't effusive, just a simple word dropped into the night air. "Really appreciate it." He quickly got in his car and drove off.
"Well, that was almost effusive," Meg commented wryly as they watched the taillights disappear.
"One word is more than zero," Maisie said, starting to walk again. "Progress?"
Meg bumped her shoulder playfully. "Slow progress in a slower town."
The streetlights were starting their uneven performance now, some humming brightly, others just offering a weak, yellow pulse, weaker than the wills of people in town. They saw an old lady who'd accompany the many elderly folk to bingo nights every Saturday, the little old lady who lived three streets over, standing uncertainly at the corner, looking at the street like it was a raging river. Traffic here was usually minimal, maybe one car every few minutes, but the darkness made it feel daunting.
They quickened their pace.
"Madam? You alright?" Maisie said softly as they approached.
The old woman turned, her eyes wide behind thick glasses. "Oh! Maisie, dear. And Meg. Just... just trying to get across. My eyes aren't what they used to be."
"We'll get you across," Meg said immediately, one arm already gently offered.
Maisie took the old lady's other arm. Together, they guided her across the quiet street, walking slowly, deliberately, shielding her slightly from the cold evening air.
When they reached the other side, the little old woman patted Maisie's hand, then Meg's, a tender gesture. "Thank you girls. So kind." Her voice was thin, reedy, and pure.
"Any time, Miss," Meg said.
"Be careful going home," Maisie added.
The old lady nodded. "You too. Tell your mother I said hello." She shuffled off into the shadows.
Maisie and Meg stood there for a moment, watching her go.
"Okay, that was actual thanks," Meg said, a small, genuine smile on her face.
Maisie smiled back, a quiet warmth spreading through her. "See? Some people."
They fell into step together, closer now, fingers linking automatically as they walked towards the edge of town, towards home. The air grew colder away from the few lit buildings. The darkness felt deeper, illuminated only by the distant, unreliable streetlights.
They were tired. The day had been long, starting before the park opened and stretching long after it closed. Their feet ached a little. Their shoulders were tense. They hadn't solved world hunger or brokered peace, but they had changed a tire, filled a tank, and helped an old woman cross the street. Small things. Things nobody else seemed inclined to do. Things they didn't have to do.
"Think Buster finished the dishes?" Meg asked, squeezing Maisie's hand.
"Knowing Buster? Probably not unless Mom stood over him," Maisie said, letting a little laugh escape. "Better add that to the list."
"And Crow was supposed to be sorting the gear," Meg mused. "Bet she got distracted by something shiny."
"Definitely distracted," Maisie agreed. "We should probably check the kitchen window before we go in, just in case Leon tried to sneak something out again."
"Oh yeah," Meg said, nudging her sister. "Good call. Can't have him trading Mom's good pans for rocks."
They talked about their scattered siblings, the chaotic, loving mess that was their home life. It was the true center of their world, the reason they did what they did, both inside the park and out. Mom needed help managing everyone. Everyone needed looking after in their own way. Helping others felt like an extension of that, a practice run for the constant juggling act at home.
They weren't friends with the townspeople, not really. Their family was too big, too... different. They lived on the fringes, connected but distinct. But they helped anyway. It felt right. It felt necessary.
The road turned to dirt under their feet. The last flickering streetlight was far behind them. Ahead, they could see the faint, warm glow of lights scattered across their own sprawling, unconventional home. The noise would start soon – Bull arguing with Bibi, Brock's music, maybe some distant explosions from Dynamike's workshop. It was messy, loud, and theirs.
"Tired?" Maisie asked softly.
"Yeah," Meg admitted. "But..."
"Yeah," Maisie finished for her, squeezing her hand back. But pretty damn satisfied. The words didn't need saying. They understood each other.
The fuzzy feeling wasn't about being thanked. It was about the shared glance with Meg over a tricky lug nut, the quiet comfort of helping the old lady together, the easy banter about chores. It was the unspoken bond that fueled their quiet acts of service, the knowledge that they had made the dreary, falling-apart town slightly less difficult for a few people, even if those people barely noticed.
They walked on, hand in hand, towards the light and the familiar chaos of home, leaving the dying town behind until morning.