The Night Shift: Watertown, South Dakota. October 2050. A work of fiction.

At 5:42 a.m., twelve truck bodies had rolled off Eli Anderson’s factory line while he slept.

Not one employee had punched a time clock.

Twenty-four years earlier, Eli had been one of those employees. He worked the overnight shift, welding steel while most of Watertown slept. The money was decent. The hours weren’t. And the idea that he might someday own part of the factory seemed about as likely as flying to Minneapolis for lunch.

Now he could do both.

At 58, Eli’s left shoulder still reminded him of those night shifts. His mattress had spent the last six hours adjusting its pressure beneath the old injury. The bedroom windows gradually brightened, imitating a sunrise still two hours away.

He swung his feet onto the warm floor.

His wife, Sarah, was asleep beside him. Her grandparents would have called their bed a medical miracle. Eli called it expensive.

He pulled on jeans and a flannel shirt. Clothing had gotten smarter over the years, but Eli remained convinced that buttons were among humanity’s more successful inventions.

Downstairs, the coffee was ready.

So was the offer.

A national manufacturing conglomerate wanted to buy their factory. The proposed price was nearly four times what the employee-owners believed the business was worth.

Eli stared at his share of the proceeds.

It was enough to retire. Enough to spend winters someplace where October didn’t threaten to become January without warning.

Sarah appeared in the kitchen, fastening a thin pair of lenses over her eyes.

“Still thinking about it?”

“Hard not to.”

“Well, don’t retire before you fix that kitchen drawer.”

She kissed his cheek and sat down to work.

A house in Nebraska had suffered hail damage overnight. Through her lenses, Sarah could see what an inspection robot saw as it crawled across the roof. She directed it toward a suspicious seam, enlarged the image, and began preparing an estimate.

The homeowner would have an answer before breakfast.

Eli remembered when her job required windshield time, ladders, and a fair amount of praying the shingles weren’t slippery.

Outside, a small, autonomous aircraft crossed the dark sky toward the regional flight terminal.

His daughter was probably aboard. She lived three streets away, but her employer was in Minneapolis. Twice a week she made the trip, reaching the office in less time than Eli once spent driving to Sioux Falls.

The other three days she worked from home.

Watertown had become an attractive place for people who could work nearly anywhere.

But that wasn’t what worried Eli.

At the factory, machines moved behind glass partitions, bending steel, joining components, and checking every finished seam. A handful of technicians monitored production. The rest of the operation needed little supervision.

Eli walked past a robotic welding arm and paused.

For twenty years he’d stood on the other side of that steel.

The factory hadn’t always belonged to its workers. When its previous owners retired, employees had been offered a chance to buy shares over time. Many thought it was foolish. Eli nearly passed.

Then came the machines.

Instead of watching automation eliminate their jobs and send the profits elsewhere, the employee-owners had gradually invested in the systems themselves.

Some workers learned to maintain them. Others moved into design, sales, or quality assurance. Some retired earlier than expected.

Not everyone made the transition easily.

But the factory stayed in Watertown.

And its profits helped pay mortgages, college bills, and little-league registration fees across town.

Now someone wanted to buy it.

The buyer promised to keep the facility open. Its representatives had even agreed to preserve the company’s name.

Eli had heard enough business promises over the years to know that names were considerably easier to preserve than livelihoods.

At three o’clock, employee-owners would begin voting.

He still didn’t know what he’d do.

That afternoon, his son called from a soybean field west of town.

“How’s the big decision?”

“About as enjoyable as pulling a combine out of a slough.”

“Funny you mention that.”

One of his son’s autonomous harvesters had buried itself after an overnight rain. His son was directing a recovery machine toward it while a drone mapped a route around the wet ground.

The equipment was impressive.

Apparently, mud remained undefeated.

“You selling?” his son asked.

“Thinking about it.”

“Can’t blame you.”

Neither said much after that.

By six, the family had gathered for supper. His daughter had returned from Minneapolis. His son smelled faintly of diesel, which Eli found reassuring in an age when most farm equipment ran without it.

A grandson climbed into the chair beside him.

“Grandpa, Dad says you used to build trucks with your hands.”

“Sure did.”

“Why?”

Eli laughed.

“Because that’s how we built them.”

The boy considered this.

“Couldn’t you just tell a machine what to do?”

Eli looked around the table.

First, at his daughter, whose children could grow up in Watertown without limiting her career. Then, at his son, who owned equipment capable of farming more acres than Eli’s grandfather could have imagined. Finally, at Sarah, whose work had followed her home without swallowing it.

Twenty-four years ago, Eli had wondered whether any of them would have a reason to stay.

Now he was wondering what it might cost to leave the future in someone else’s hands.

He excused himself, walked to the kitchen, and opened the ballot.

Approve the sale?

Without hesitation, he selected No.

There was no guarantee the other owners would agree. No guarantee keeping the factory would prove the smarter financial decision.

Upstairs, his grandson was already asking whether Grandpa could show him the robots tomorrow.

Eli smiled.

Across town, the factory’s overnight production cycle began.

Eli no longer reported for the night shift. 

But he still had something worth showing up for.