Zane sat at the intake desk. His hands were steady as he picked up the glass needle. The air in the Memory Exchange smelled like wet copper and old paper. It was a cold Tuesday. Outside, the city of Oakhaven was turning white with frost. People stood in a line that stretched around the corner. They all held empty brass canisters. They were waiting to trade what they knew for enough heat to live another night.
A girl named Cleo sat across from him. She was nine years old. She wore a coat that was too big for her. Her fingers were purple from the chill. Zane looked at her file. She had come to trade the memory of her third birthday party. It was a high-grade memory. It was full of sun and the taste of strawberry cake. It would produce three liters of high-pressure steam.
Zane did not feel sorry for her. He did not feel much of anything. He had already traded his own memories of feeling sorry for people. He did those trades three years ago to pay for his rent. Now, he just watched the needle. He watched the way the blue liquid moved from the back of Cleo’s neck into the glass vial.
“Will it hurt?” Cleo asked. Her voice was small.
“It will feel like a sneeze that never happens,” Zane said. He pushed the needle in.
The blue light filled the tube. Cleo’s eyes went dull for a second. Then she blinked. The color returned to her face, but the smile was gone. She looked at the brass canister Zane handed her. It was heavy with steam.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“You bought your family another day of warmth,” Zane said. He pointed to the door. “Next.”
The city was dying. The great brass boilers in the basement of the metropolis were hungry. They did not run on coal or oil. They ran on the energy of human experience. A wedding day could power a streetlamp for a week. A first heartbreak could run a factory for an hour. But the city was greedy. It took more than it gave.
Victor walked into the room. Victor was the supervisor. He was a tall man who moved like a clicking clock. He looked at the charts on the wall. The pressure was dropping. The frost was thick on the inside of the windows now.
“The main engine is stalling, Zane,” Victor said. His voice was flat. “The people are giving us junk. We are getting too many memories of lunch or walking to the store. We need something deep. We need a Core.”
Zane looked at his own shelf. Behind his desk, there were three jars. They were his last ones. He had kept them because the law said every citizen must keep a part of themselves. It was a rule meant to prevent people from becoming empty shells. People who gave everything away became “The Hollows.” They just sat on street corners and stared at the sky until they stopped breathing.
“I have nothing left to give,” Zane said.
“You are the head archivist,” Victor said. “You have the best collection in the city. If the boiler stops, ten thousand people freeze. The children will be the first to go. Cleo will be the first to go.”
Zane looked at the frost on his desk. He thought about the strawberry cake memory he had just taken. It was sitting in a vat, waiting to be burned. It seemed like a waste.
“The pressure is at ten percent,” Victor said. He was looking at a gauge on the wall. “The city is going silent.”
Zane reached back. He took down the first jar. It was labeled: *The Day I Met My Wife.*
He remembered Sarah. He remembered the way she smelled like rain and old books. He remembered the way she laughed at his bad jokes. He put the jar on the machine. He pulled the lever. The blue light flared. The pipes in the walls began to groan. A small puff of heat hit his face.
“Not enough,” Victor said.
Zane took the second jar: *The Birth of My Daughter, Indie.*
He saw a tiny hand reaching for his thumb. He felt the weight of a small, warm body against his chest. He felt the terror and the love that came with a new life. He pushed it into the machine. The pipes hissed. Outside, the streetlamps flickered to life. The people in the line cheered. They could feel the warmth coming through the grates in the sidewalk.
“We need one more,” Victor said. “The engine needs to turn over. It needs the spark.”
Zane looked at the last jar. It had no label. It was a dark, pulsing blue. It was the memory of why he was an archivist. It was the memory of his purpose. It was the very thing that made him Zane. Without it, he would just be a body in a chair.
He thought about the girl, Cleo. He thought about her purple fingers. He thought about the thousands of families huddling in the dark. If he kept this jar, he would know who he was, but he would be dead. If he gave it, they would live, but he would be gone.
Zane felt a sudden coldness in his chest. It was not the weather. it was the fear of being nobody. His eyes stung. He looked at his hands. They were shaking for the first time in years.
“They will be warm,” Zane whispered.
“Yes,” Victor said. “They will live to make new memories.”
Zane placed the last jar into the slot. He did not hesitate. He slammed the lever down.
The sound was like a thunderclap. The blue light was so bright it blinded him. The heat exploded out of the vents. It was a glorious, golden warmth. It smelled like summer. It smelled like life. The big brass engine downstairs roared. It was a triumph. The city was saved. The freeze was broken.
Zane sat back in his chair. He felt the warmth on his skin. It felt nice.
He looked around the room. It was a strange place. There were lots of pipes and glass jars. He looked at the man standing near the wall.
“Hello,” Zane said. His voice was hollow. “Who are you?”
Victor looked at him. For a second, Victor’s face looked like it might break. Then, he went back to being a clock.
“I am your supervisor,” Victor said.
“Oh,” Zane said. He looked down at the desk. There was a picture of a woman and a little girl. They were smiling. “Who are these people?”
“I don’t know,” Victor lied.
Zane nodded. He felt very light. He felt like a balloon that had been untied. He didn’t have any weight. He didn’t have any sadness. He didn’t have anything at all.
“It’s very warm in here,” Zane said. He smiled, but his eyes stayed still. “I like the heat.”
Outside, the city was shouting. People were dancing in the streets because the radiators were clanking. They were hugging each other. They were happy.
Zane sat in his chair and watched the frost melt off the window. He didn’t know why he was happy for them. He didn’t know them. He didn’t even know himself. He just sat there in the golden light, a hero who couldn’t remember what he had saved. He stayed there until the sun went down, staring at the empty glass jars, waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.