He had ten levers to control ten cranes. And he had one purpose. He obeyed them blindly, even though they needed him more than he needed them. He was the physical, and they were the mental.

He wrote whatever they wanted him to write. Sometimes in the middle of his five minute lunch break, a message appeared on the board in front of him: TRANSCRIPTION. And his heart did a backwards somersault.

He used the cranes to make words. He used them to make clauses and sentences and phrases and paragraphs and essays and novels. The Bigwigs barked rapid-fire orders at him, and he responded by manipulating the levers faster and faster. He could do a hundred words per minute, sometimes one-twenty. When they finally gave him permission to stop, he felt like he’d just run a marathon. The cranes quivered from fatigue, but inside he felt a roaring hearth of happiness. 

He always had to write what they wanted. His brain was a storage unit for his own stories, and if he was allowed to write them, he’d have several Nobel Prizes. But his stories stayed latched inside, untouchable and private. Sweat dripped as he wrote for the Bigwigs, but he didn’t dare to put even a letter of his own onto the page.

The cranes had just moved up and down for hours straight. Days, maybe. Their stories were etched into the screen. Jealously crept into his heart, with a big knife. For the first time, he looked over his shoulder to see if they were watching. Then, the levers moved to the delete key, and the entire page was blank again. 

The Bigwigs would have no idea it was him. They would blame the computer. Because he was loyal, because he groveled and begged. They couldn’t get rid of him; then they’d have nothing left.