Dad slumped over his cornflakes. Milk droplets hung from his drooping mustache. His eyes glazed over as he stared into his bowl. His appearance was identical to when Mom left us for an "alternative way of life."

"Everything alright, Pa?" I asked, holding my breath.

"Your brother's a goddamn scab!" He held a spoon in his fist like a dagger as he looked up at me. "Goddammit, Michelle. I don't have the strength to fight them anymore." The breath I'd held left me as if he'd punched me.

"No! You can't let them win. I'll come with," I said. Dad hugged me tight before pulling back and staring into my eyes. Silently confirming I was still his little girl.

I helped him to his feet, wiping milk and stray flakes from his chin. Each day of the strike took a little more out of him. If I were there, I could watch over Dad, find my big brother Pete, and talk some sense into him. Hopefully, it's not too late.

* * *

At the Abernathy Autunite Mining Company's gate, biohazard signs reflected the morning sun into the squinting faces of the picketers.

I looked through the fence to see if I could spot Pete amongst the mining machines and hazmat-clad workers. AAMC had been the last holdout with human hires within the fully automated mining facilities of the Unistates. With A.I. Attendants, the latest craze, most companies only employed humans if workers got suitable anatomical upgrades.

Dad held up a homemade sign that read, 'Keep Humans Human!' in one hand and his cane in the other. We started marching and chanting with the rest of his peers.

What do we want?

To work as we are!

When do we want it?

Now!

Picketing continued as the sun rose to its zenith. The line broke as individuals rushed to the fencing to scream at the scabs coming out for lunch. That's when I spotted Pete. He was a foot taller than Dad but shared the same furrowed brow. He'd just lit a cigarette when he saw me. He motioned with his thumb to a copse of sickly trees growing alongside the fence. I looked over at Dad, resting on a cooler, eating an egg sandwich, and took the opportunity to sneak away.

"Pete! You okay in there?" I surveyed his body to see if there were any changes. His suit had been patched with duct tape and was two sizes too large.

"It's not so bad. I work the elevator. The Cybo guys do the actual mining," he said simply as he exhaled smoke. It rose in a halo around him before disappearing into the dark green leaves above.

'Cybo' is the slur given to anyone who traded their humanity for free robot legs or arms. Some turned their entire surface robotic to shield them from the radiation. Sure, they earned a living but remained shunned outsiders in this once prosperous town.

"Aren't you afraid they'll make you Cybo? Or of radiation sickness?"

"Afraid of something that will either make me stronger or kill me when I'm an old fart like Dad? I'm more afraid of you starving, kiddo. Of Dad not paying his medical bills. Losing our home."

"Pete! Dad's fighting for human rights, and you undermine that fight!"

"You learn those big words at school? You're sounding more and more like Mom every day. Soon, you'll get genetic upgrades and leave us for La Ciudad." He took a deep drag off the cigarette, wincing sharply. I saw he was trying to hold back tears, trying not to lose it in front of me. "You know I have to do this for us."

Pete dropped his cigarette and stomped it with his boot, crushing it like all the dreams we’d had together. It took all my strength to keep from crying. The wind shifted, and I sensed Dad looming behind me. Pete's eyes got big as saucers, and he stepped back as if the fence wasn't strong enough to keep out Dad's anger.

"Stay away from that dirty fucking scab!" Dad grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me away.

"Don't hurt her! I'm just doing my job to protect our family!" Pete rushed forward, sweating profusely, fists clenched. I could imagine his arms months from now replaced by large mechanical ones that could crush rocks.

"Your family, Cybo-wannabe? You're no son of mine!" Dad dropped my shirt, took my hand, and led me back to the picket line. Then he joined the sunburnt union members parading with his sign held high, newly spirited by anger.

Pete was still where we left him. I couldn't make out his expression, but his shoulders drooped as he strode away. He only ever wanted what was best for us.

As I began marching, I thought about the emptiness of our fridge and the last time we could afford real meat. Despite treatment, Dad's cough rattled in his chest all day and night. I'd tried to ignore his bloody tissues spilling out of the wastebasket. Recycled his empty pill bottles that had no further refills. What if Pete was right? What if Dad was wasting time waiting for the union to win when he needed more treatment now? I couldn't lose another parent. I needed my family, and they needed me.

My heart was racing, and I put my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking. I'm sorry, Pa. One day, you'll understand.

I left my place in line.

While Dad chanted slogans with the rest of the crew, I scaled the chain link fence and dropped down unnoticed. I ran to the foreman's trailer, taking one last look at my Dad before entering. It was time to see if I could save my family too.