In the shopping district of Space Station Otori, one moving company is still open.

That’s where Manabe works. Young guy. Well — “works” is generous. He is the staff, the manager, and the entire operation: pushing the hand truck, laying down protective tape, stacking boxes. His quota this month is fifteen jobs. He’s done twelve. Three more before the end of the month and he gets a bonus.

What caught his attention was a regular named Fukui.

Fukui, a salaryman in his forties, had lived on the station’s mid-level until he moved to Section 7, the inner core, about six months ago. That move took eleven boxes. Now he was moving again — from Section 7 to Section 3, even closer to the center.

“This is all you’ve got?”

Manabe stared into the back of the truck. Four boxes. Less than half of last time.

“Ah, well, there’s a limit on what you can bring in,” Fukui said, looking a little apologetic. “Section 3 caps it at four. Anything over that, you either put in storage with the management office or you get rid of it.”

“You had eleven boxes before.”

“Right, but… I sorted things out. The guidelines keep changing, so a little at a time, you know.”

The strange part was that Fukui didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed almost proud — traveling light, he called it. Maybe that’s just how people who live near the core talked.

At its peak, the station had four moving companies. There was a boom when everyone was relocating from the outer edge toward the center, and they were all swamped. But the closer to the core, the stricter the possession limits — so each repeat customer showed up with less and less each time. Less stuff meant less reason to hire movers. One by one, the other three companies folded. Manabe’s shop was the last one standing.

The next day, the phone rang.

“I’d like to arrange a move, please.”

“Thank you for calling. Where from, and where to?”

“From Section 2 out to Block E on the outer edge.”

Manabe shifted his grip on the receiver. Someone moving out from the core to the outer edge. He wasn’t sure that had ever happened before.

“How much are you bringing?”

“Um… one bag.”

“One bag.”

“Yeah. But I heard you can actually own things out there.”

After he hung up, Manabe made a mark on the quota board. Thirteen. Not bad.

He rolled the hand truck out the door. This time, the cart weighed more than the customer’s luggage.