She looked at her sculpture and knew it wasn’t good enough, that the collection of dead hardware would never see daylight. The gyre rose upward to fill the space, silver edges catching the overhead lights to glitter like sparks. Building it had been a waste of time, but there were only so many hours she could sit in a laundromat watching clothes spin. She would never work again, the country submerged under an ocean of unemployed. Her NYPD disability would last another four years, a big five in all, and the Marines pension came online if she made it to sixty. It was only those thirty years in between she had to worry about.