Ration Day
door open half an inch. The boy from next door was stooped over my basket and he freezes when he sees me. For 12 full seconds neither of us moves. I think of shouting for a trooper though I don’t know if any would be within range. I open my mouth, my throat constricting to form the first consonant. “Help—–” Why did I think of saying that? Before I could, a little hand appears, clenching something. Sawi? Despite my fear, my hand takes it. Then the boy was gone. Later that night, on the rooftop, I would stare out at stretches of rooftops in the neighbourhood, covered in beans, lettuce, spinach. All this time I was living in the dark, calcium was growing up here, a network of resistance. But as I sit unfurling the leaves of the sawi, my feet tingling, my eyes trying to make sense of the small scrap of paper with the challenge — 11pm rooftop — all I could think of was the little hand on the Outside, warm and human against mine on the Inside, skins briefly touching in between two worlds, long enough for me to see the light.
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