I stand on the ledge, breathing hard. My boots tip the edge, the rock dropping sharply beyond. There used to be water here, cascading in delicate chandeliers, becoming a jewelled curtain in spring. People used to come and eat roast chicken on supermarket buns at the foot of the falls, back when supermarkets existed and chicken wasn’t just for the ridiculously rich.
The river’s long gone, but if I squint I can almost convince myself. Are there shoots winking among the boulders, tiny emerald fairies? Or is that just my hypoxia talking?
The timer vibrates and I pull the mask on just in time, taking a deep breath as I tighten the straps. The searing skin on my face throbs as the fan kicks in. I’m tempted to head downstream to investigate my green hallucinations, but the dust index is over 200 today and I have clinic starting in an hour.
“You’re late again,” the nurse grins. “You owe me a Q-bar.”
“Shut up, Dave. I brought you beer instead.” I throw him a jar.
“You might need it yourself at the end of the day,” he says, not throwing it back. “You’ve got a long list.”
The first record is a short one, as most of them are. The people from the Outers don’t seek medical care unless they have to. Actually, this free clinic is an anomaly in Aotea, but my boss is buddies with the Mayor. Call me cynical but it’s good optics to sponsor Professor Rawene’s projects, especially in an election year.
Mr Reyes, a 35-year-old man, has breathing issues. The crowded conditions in the Outers make that a fairly normal problem. But when I turn to the lung function graph, the pattern looks familiar. I flip the page to check his occupation and my stomach twists.
“Dave, does Mr Reyes have his family with him today? Could you tell them to wait please?” He nods.
Mr Reyes is stunted, not unusual for someone from his part of the City. I clasp his hand, feeling the clamminess of his skin, and sneak a quick feel of the pulse. It’s weak and fast, with the occasional ectopic beat.
“My name is Dr An West. How are you today?”
“Fine.” His smile warms me instantly. “I’m here now, you’re going to make me better!” To be first in line for my clinic, he would have had to queue for hours, from long before the lights came on.
“You been working on the ventilation shafts?”
“Only for a few months. Ae but it’s good to be outside!”
I agree, but don’t mention it. Lots of people fear the outside because they haven’t been there. But since I started sneaking out, I’ve developed a relationship with the sky. It’s not as empty as one might think. I’m brought back by a hand on my wrist.
“I’m ok, aren’t I doc? It’s just a cough that will go away?”
I don’t quite manage to make my eyes meet his. “Why don’t I send you for an X-ray, then I can talk to you and your whole family.” I try a terrible joke. “My room is big enough to fit a rugby team.”
It works, and Mr Reyes grins as he follows Dave. My clinic room will be bigger than the whole of the cramped quarters he and his family share. Even the narrow tunnels of the Outers, originally dug for maintenance and sweltering from its proximity to the surface, is expensive real estate, rented out in small sections by predatory landlords.
I pull up the lung function reports I’ve saved. Mr Reyes’ curve matches the others’. There’s a catastrophic drop-off in total lung capacity. I already know that the X-ray will show fluffiness of his airways, as if he’s inhaled a cloud. It’s almost beautiful. But the fibrosis will slowly starve him of oxygen and in months or years, it will finish its job.
After Dave has ushered out the weeping family, I open the next case and work through the rest of my day mechanically. Normally I love the Workers’ Clinic. It’s much more varied than the uptight paying patients from the Mid-Levels and Core, and there’s always some juicy pathology. But I can’t get Mr Reye’s face out of my mind. How he smiled, even when I told him what would happen.
“I trust you to look after me, Dr An.”
I get home late, but Dad’s awake and on his dialysis. He’s been sleeping so much since Mum passed, I take every opportunity to chat with him, even if I have a pile of case notes to do.
“I went out to the waterfall again today, Dad.”
He smiles, still distant. “How was she?”
I never know whether he means mum or something else. He and Mum used to hike out to the Fairy Falls as a date, and roast chicken featured regularly. Back then it still rained, and Mum would hold onto Dad’s hand to steady herself as she clambered over rocks slippery with moss. One day he lost his grip and Mum had gone bumscooting over the rocks, laughing like crazy. He’d lost the ring he was going to propose with but she still said yes.
“I thought I saw some new shoots.”
He almost returns to himself. “I wonder what species? Now that would have been something for your mother to figure.”
My mother spent half her life working in a mushroom factory, but loved the colour green. Because of her I know lots of native plant names, scientific and traditional, even though I’ve only seen them in books. She never gave up dreaming that one day the lush bush of her childhood would return.
“An! Come in, have a chocolate. The mayor gave these to me after my speech last night.”
Professor Rawene’s office smells of her favourite scent, tea roses. She’s a miracle worker, with the sexy backstory of having worked her way out of the Outers through sheer guts and sass. I couldn’t believe my luck when she picked me out of the medical student line-up. I’ve spent my training years wanting to be her. Exactly like her, even down to her perfume.
“How’s the clinic?”
I chew regretfully. Luxury items like chocolates should never be eaten quickly. “Busy. I didn’t get home till after lights down.”
She frowns. “I hope you didn’t walk.”
“I don’t mind, it’s perfectly—”
“The Outers isn’t safe to walk through when it’s late.” She makes a note. “I’ll get the Police to supply an escort.”
I don’t want one, but I can see there’s no point arguing.
“Now what did you want to ask me about?”
“I’ve been seeing a trend.” I pass her my screen. “There seems to be more and more of these cases.”
She slides on her glasses. “That slide in FEV1.”
“Yes, and the only thing they have in common is they’ve all worked on the Outside.”
She frowns. “We know it’s safe. The surface ozone levels have been stable for decades now.”
Trust Prof to jump straight to the answer.
“Ah, ozone,” I say, nodding wisely.
She’s not fooled. “Go home and look it up, An. But that’s not the reason. It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“But I’ve collected over seventy cases—”
“Focus on your real work, An.” Prof passes me back the screen. “Your medical skills are good, but you need more practice or I can’t sign off on your specialty registration.”
I’m going to be a fully qualified general physician in two weeks. Mum would be so proud. Despite being Westernised, her Cantonese mama roots ran deep. My upcoming job comes with its own apartment in the Mid-levels. I suspect Prof’s recommendation is why they picked me, a short half-Asian chick, out of tens of applicants. The apartment comes at the perfect time, when Dad needs access to running water for his dialysis.
Prof leans forward to offer me another chocolate and pats my knee. “Now go do your job.”
Dad might have the best library in Aotea City – of real books, anyway. I have no idea how he and mum kept so many, over those years spent living in a tiny room with a vomity baby. Or what people made of a mushroom sorter and a pipe layer obsessed with stockpiling ancient local history. But if anyone asks me about bush loos of the Waitākere Ranges, I’m ready.
Their collection obsession even extended to Local Body reports from the 2000s, showing rainfall and temperature records up to 2026, when the record abruptly stopped with the great Fire that destroyed most of the tree cover of Aotearoa. I guess it made them too sad to keep on documenting as the drought set in and the seasonal tornadoes blew away the soil. It’s hard to imagine anything but lichen growing on the bare outcrops now.
“What are you looking for?” Dad asks. He’s hooked up and can’t move.
“Ozone.” I slide my finger along the paper columns. “I remember seeing it once and wondering why they measured it.”
“Ozone hole,” Dad says. Even though he’s so distant in the present, details in the past are focused. He goes on to explain. Apparently back then ozone was the good guy. No one even worried about surface ozone but the enthusiastic rangers of the Waitākeres measured it from the tree canopies anyway.
“Here it is.” I’ve found it on the report. Fifty years ago, surface ozone was at 0.01 parts per million – well within the safe zone, from my reading. And these days – I look up the official City measurements online – it’s at 0.09 ppm. Still safe. With its dampening effect on lung growth and promotion of inflammation and chronic lung disease, it would have been the perfect explanation for what I was seeing in my patients. But nothing is ever perfect.
Dad’s fumbling through his work chest, the one that holds all his treasures. Finally he sighs, flicks a switch and holds something out to me. “It still works, after all these years.”
“Wow. A retro digital display.” I weigh the solid block in my hand.
“It was state of the art once,” says Dad. “An ozone meter.”
“It was hers?” I’d forgotten that, long before my time, Mum was a local ranger.
“Take it,” says Dad. “Maybe she’d like it if you gave it a whirl by the waterfall.”
The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen, but still potentially deadly. In spring, storms can arrive without warning. But taking off my mask will allow me to see better. Right?
The dry hot air burns at my face and upper chest as I take Mum’s meter out and flick it on. The numbers blink for a seemingly long time before settling. 6.2 ppm.
That must be wrong. A ten times increase from what the official website showed? I press the button to go again. 6.3 ppm. The meter must be stuffed, because if it were right, I would be breathing in highly toxic levels right now. I pull out the official numbers to compare and then I notice something.
There’s no natural variation in the numbers. They cycle evenly: 0.6, 0.7, 0.8. 0.6, 0.7, 0.8. As if churned out by a computer, far too perfect to be real.
Prof is at her desk, staring at the graphs I’ve just brought her. “Where did you get these numbers?”
“I – found a portal that was unlocked.”
“An! You went outside? You collected these illegally?”
“Aren’t you the one who taught me to always double check my evidence?”
“But not at the risk of your own life!” She’s standing up now, her face a picture of concern.
“You said it was safe to go out.”
“It is, with a mask –“
“I wear a mask,” I lie.
“You still shouldn’t go out. You have no idea what might happen.”
I think of standing at the top of that waterfall, looking at rocks tumbled by a long-extinct river and feeling at peace. I want to tell her but I know how busy she is, even though she makes time for me. “Do you know why the official numbers are ten times less?”
She frowns, then smiles. “Why do you doubt the official numbers?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“An. Let it go. Leave it to others to keep the records, your job is with the sick.”
I remember the touch of Mr Reye’s hand, cool and clammy, and his warm smile. “Shouldn’t my job be to work out what’s making them sick?”
Prof sighs and rolls her eyes very slightly. “An, are you really ready to be a Specialist? I’m beginning to wonder.”
The next time I go to the portal, it’s been protected by a keycode. So have all the other portals. So I find a crowd of workers, ready to slip out behind them.
Hanging back, I see a familiar face coughing and wheezing his way towards the doors.
“Mr Reyes! You won’t remem—”
“Dr An! Of course I remember you! The one who is going to save my life!” He clutches my hand delightedly.
“You shouldn’t be going—”
“My wife is pregnant again. Yes, yes, it is wonderful news, we accept God’s gift. But now I have to work even harder.”
I look at him and the other workers. “Where are your masks?”
“The city doesn’t supply them to us any more. We have to buy our own if we want one. But it is no matter, it is safe to work. Masks will only get in the way.”
“Why don’t you take mine?”
“No, I cannot. It is so expensive.” He hands it back firmly. “Don’t you worry, dear doctor. Look after yourself.”
When I finally get home, Dad is asleep. I carefully place the meter on the table beside him. This afternoon, I took it to Biomedical, who said it was still perfectly calibrated and the best-preserved old tech they had seen.
I sit down at my desk, and open the records I got from the city archives.
“Your mother would have wanted to find the truth too,” Dad says. The click of the meter must have woken him.
“How did you know—”
“You’re not eating. And you’re muttering a lot.”
I groan. It’s no wonder I drive away boyfriends if even my dad thinks I’m weird.
“You’ve always cared too much about your patients,” Dad says gently. “But if you don’t want to get too deep, I’d stop right now.”
I suddenly stop scrolling and stare at the line of numbers on the screen. My mouth drops open.
“I’m too late, aren’t I?” Dad says, smiling.
The Commons is where the great and good of the City gather. It’s protected by lines of guards to keep out the riff-raff, but no one’s ever commented on the irony of the name.
Today, it’s also where I’m meeting Prof for lunch in a fancy café. She’s promised to buy me real coffee in celebration of my attainment of Specialist status. From now on, I’ll be one of the elite, like Prof, just not as famous.
“I’ve got something to show you.” I’ve spent all night imagining how excited and worried she’ll be.
Prof takes my screen. She frowns, reading, as I gabble.
“That first graph shows that surface ozone levels had been gradually rising since the 1990s, when global warming was first raised as an issue. But the great Fire of 2026 is when there was a huge jump in ozone, brought about by the perfect storm of hydrocarbon release and intense heat. In fact surface ozone was one of the reasons construction of an underground city became so urgent.”
“I can’t see why this is news,” Prof says.
I nearly burst with anticipation. “I plotted the second graph from the measures the City engineers have been taking ever since the City was founded, in 2027. It shows that Outside ozone levels have stayed high since the Fire, though with seasonal variations. In summer, the levels routinely go as high as 7 or 8 parts per million. It could explain all the cases we’ve been seeing.”
“That’s quite a big leap to make.”
“I’ve run the data controlling for all confoundables. Can’t you see? If those workers are outside in those high levels, after just a few weeks their lungs will start to show changes. I talked to them and none of them have masks, it’s a major health and safety issue.”
“So what do you propose?”
“We need to tell the Works Department urgently. I know it’s more money but it’s worth it for the lives saved.”
Prof closes her eyes and holds them shut for a few seconds. When she opens them again, her expression is blank.
“Maybe you could talk to the Mayor,” I say, hoping for more enthusiasm.
“An. You’re a good doctor but you really are naïve, aren’t you? What do you think will happen if the Mayor announces that masks are now needed, after all this time? She’ll be sued by every Worker family in the City. There’ll be demonstrations. An uprising.”
“But—”
“We need to do our job without getting involved in politics.”
“But this isn’t politics! What about the workers who die and leave their families without an income? You know what happens! Children disappear—”
“An, I’m starting to seriously question your fitness to practise. The City needs Specialists who will serve the needs of its population, not chase false rumours. The ozone levels on the City website are correct, they’re measured by automated sensors, so not subject to the human error of the past. You need to stop worrying.”
She smiles and for the first time I see that it’s a tiger smile.
*
My bare feet clutch the edge of the burning rock as my mouth inhales heavy, warm air. My breath comes faster as I dig my toes into the final foothold and drop into the valley. The boulders stretch out in front. I focus on stepping one by one, making slow, steady progress towards the tiny glint of green. My mask timer has gone off long before, but it seems futile to use it now. I don’t have long, but I have all the time in the world.
Finally I reach it. A tiny plant, three delicate shoots extended, and a single heart-shaped leaf. Kawakawa. My mother would have been pleased it was this one that I found. She used to talk about the healing balm and how she itched to pluck its leaves one more time. But this little leaf is safe, at least from me.
I turn back to look at the waterfall. Maybe my parents used to look from this spot too, in a time long ago when this world was still green and flowing with abundant water.
By now, my report will be flowing into the inbox of every doctor and public servant in Aotea City. A summary sent to all the news reporters, with a link to where I found the data. My father will be dozing on his chair, waiting for the lifesaving fluid to drain from his abdomen. We’ll lose the apartment once they tell me I no longer have a job, but it doesn’t matter. Dad’s disease was already progressing. “I’ll tell Mum what you did when I see her,” he said.
There is all the time in the world. I might retrain: journalism seems like a good option now. I slide on my mask and walk towards the waterfall. Gripping the rock, I begin to climb.