I glance over at Classic, and he is smirking at me. Like I have proven his point, a point he never made. My face bunches when I look at him, because I notice that he might have been attractive in his youth. I wasn’t brought up to think in looks, but I still no - tice, even if I don’t want to. We stare at each other long before I answer. “Yes-” I snap as quietly as I can in the silent field. “- Now stop talking to me.” Classic smiles, not the patronizing smirk he gave before. “They call me Classic, but my name is--” I cut him off before he can finish. “I don’t want to know your name- Names are meaningless here.” He quiets as soon enough we are joined by more chains. We work in silence, not speaking, not humming, and the suits hover over our shoulders as we work in the burning hot sun. A suit stops next to me, scooping a hand into my basket and lifting it to her face. She approves. That’s enough for me. However, she pauses at Classic’s basket; there are hardly notes there. The suit keeps moving, shaking her head as she walks. My head turns to watch her go, why am I watching in the first place? Classic tips his head, watching the suit, and then looks at me. I look away before he sees my watching eyes. We work, the sun bakes the backs of our necks. We ignore the heat. We ignore bodies that slump over from heat exhaustion. We work so we don’t die. But someone does die today. A young man, about twenty feet away, is dead within moments. The suits unclasp his golden shackles and drag his body to the flames. A furnace that burns at all times. He is hauled up and thrown in, his ash and bones will be used to grow notes.
The whispers called him ‘RB’. We work harder, even Classic. . . .
I wake before the sun this time and am taken outside. Today is the first. They bandage our hands on the first of every month. The medic, a suit, observes each hand, check- ing for infection beyond damage.
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