I listen for what feels like hours, listening to the hopeful words and daydreams the suits can’t take from them. I start to believe in them, in the dreams they have. The man who sleeps under me, who signed onto the golden chains, usually cries himself to sleep. When I hear the quiet sobs deep in the night, I reach out my hand. I wake late the next morning, a hand still in mine. I don’t release him until he wakes up. We call him Reggae. . . . I am taken to the fields with most of the people in my bunk, but when I get there, Classic isn’t. I wonder about him as my hands sweep dirt away, my mind welcomes the thoughts that his words started filling. Where is he? His basket sits across from me. I hear whispers of a sickness spreading through us, sending us to the medics, to hospitals, even to the grave. It makes me shiver. I ask about Classic, my neighbor seems shocked that I can speak, but she tells me what she knows. Ballad tells me that Classic got the sun sick, not the new sick that kills us. It was a relief to hear, but the sun sick is no joke. I had it when I was younger, two days of hot and cold flashes that had me plastered to my uncomfortable bed. I send out hope to Classic, even if I don’t believe in a higher power. What kind of higher power allows this torture? But I allow myself to hope for the older man. Around three, at the highest point of the sun, Classic returns to us. He looks paler than usual, his face and skin clammy and sick. Sun sick. He kneels in the dirt, slow and dizzy to watch, slumping. His suited guards leave, and he looks at me with bloodshot eyes and dry lips. I reach out my hand, not bothering to look for watching eyes. Classic lets his fingers brush mine, but the chains pull us farther and farther away. My index finger curls around his middle, he feels to hot. We hold on as long as we can without being noticed, when the heat and distance forces our worked fingers apart. A few of my notes make their way into Classic’s basket. He’s falling behind the rest of us, and his golden chains are about to expire, then he’ll be gone. The thought causes of pang in my chest, I can’t explain it. I don’t want him to die, but I don’t want to see him go. Humming fills my ears as the moon rises, when I look up, Classic is staring at the sky.
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