Shifted by Lily Cahill

been wonderful at this job because she had been charming and elegant, capable of spreading her charm like rich, buttercream frosting. But Briar was struggling to make enough to cover rent and gas for her car. It wasn’t worth the humiliation of wearing this skimpy outfit, which was ridiculous from the tip of her fishnet-clad toes to the sparkly, flame-shaped hat that topped her head. 
    Her back ached, and her feet had gone numb. Maybe she just needed a break. A glass of water and five minutes without the heavy tray dragging at her shoulders, and she would be ready to go fake her smile again.
    She set the tray on a table and carefully slipped out from under the wide leather straps. The relief was immediate. She arched her back to stretch before she remembered that she was in a corset, and liable to show the whole room her nipples if she kept that up. She turned to the wall and shimmied the top as high as it would go. 
    She hated this outfit. She hated this job. She hated everything. 
    She slipped over to the service well where Phil Hubbard, the bartender, was mixing cocktails with practiced ease. “How you doing, sugar pie?” he asked with a wink.
    “Having a long night,” she confessed. “Could I have a glass of water?”
    “You bet,” he said, already pouring the glass. “But you better be quick. Boss won’t like you taking a break on the floor.”
    “It will only be a minute,” she promised.
    Briar sipped at the water and wished it was a soda, wished she was out on the dance floor, wished she was laughing with a handsome man. What did it say about her life that old Mrs. McClure was having more fun than she was?
    The other soldier, Sgt. Pangburn, was leaning on the bar and holding court. “Gentlemen, I’ve been on the front lines, and I’ll tell you, Senator McCarthy’s got it right. The number one mission of the Soviets is to bring down the American way of life.”
    He was surrounded by a group of men in suits that included Clancy Price, the mayor’s husband, and Eldritch Warren, a city councilman. 
    “It just doesn’t seem possible,” said Hugo Humbert, the school principal. “Sen. McCarthy would have us believe that Communists are everywhere, but I’ve never met one. Even the Sokolovs, a Russian family in town, swear they’re not Communists.”
    “Are you sure of that?” Sgt. Pangburn asked, fixing Humbert with his dark eyes. “They’re trained to hide in the shadows. Our evidence suggests that there are thousands of deep cover agents in the United States. Not to mention the fellow travelers, who may not be Soviets but are sympathetic to their cause.”
    “You ask me, one is too many,” Eldritch Warren said with a firm nod. “Communism is a weed that will strangle a healthy society. We ought to root them all out.”
    Phil’s hands had frozen in the middle of stirring a martini. Carefully, he set the shaker down and started to unroll the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Before he tugged the sleeve down, Briar noticed an old faded tattoo on his forearm. It looked like a loaf of bread encircled by roses. 
    Thirty years previous, before Briar was even born, the mine workers had gone on strike to protest working conditions and low wages. They had wanted to form a union for the protection of the workers, which was a revolutionary idea at the time. 
    Briar remembered hearing that bread and roses were a symbol of the Socialist party. These days, she knew, that was enough to be branded as a Communist, even a traitor to the United States.
    “This country deserves to be safe,” said Sgt. Pangburn. “We’ll never rest until we’ve weeded out the Soviet threat once and for all.”
    Briar looked at Phil. For once, he wasn’t smiling; for once, his eyes were serious. Then his eyes flicked over something past Briar’s shoulder and he busily snatched up a highball glass. 
    With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Briar turned to face Mr. McPherson. 
    He was red in the face, and his perpetual