Mykha drops himself back into the chair behind the desk and flips through a book in front of him. It's one of the shop's record books—specifically, the one for keeping track of their trades with Ampbe.
He and his father used to have a computer but it broke—its lifeless shell still sits stupidly to one side, gathering an impressive amount of dust—and they haven't had the money to fix it for ages. At least they'd had a backup drive, but it had been a colossal hassle finding someone who would let Mykha open a few files on their system to get some of the shop's records down on paper. He wonders if it would even be worth it to go digital again when it would set them back so much. Business has been slow. They're one of the poorest families in the area now.
“Honestly I dunno what we need more, money or supplies.” He runs a hand worriedly through his dark, wild hair. “Fucking Ampbe would never let me overcharge you—not, I mean, not that I would—but it's a good part you found and we need as much as you can give us. ...Sit down, you're making me nervous.”
He mutters a comment in another language, certain they won't understand him anyway.