“Is it worth it?” I ask her. I didn’t mean for it to come out harshly, but it sounds like it is to my own ears. Ballad lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head as she stares back at the ground. “No. Death out here isn’t worth anything.” I hesitate, that dangerous question stuck in my throat, “What’s your name?” She looks up at me, and I can she that she has eyes as blue as the sky, that shimmer with something that I can’t really define. “My name is Emily.” . . . That night, I don’t ignore my bunkmates. My hand holds tight onto Reggae’s, and I call out questions to the few who speak, sharing my own stories and smiles. It’s a cool night, but I feel warmer than I have ever felt. “The suits seem to be in a good mood lately,” someone whispers. “That means quota is being met,” I reply. “But there are more-” Someone else calls back to me. “- They do that when they want to scare us into working harder.” I don’t have a response to that, so I wrap my hand in Reggae’s and curl my arm around my head, closing my eyes. There’s only one reason that more suits would be brought in, and no one likes to voice that reason.
“I think someone is going to die soon.” I don’t think anyone sleeps well after that. . . .
I am tired when I wake again; I’m worried when they take me out to the fields. Some- one is going to die today. We are led, set to work, suits walking between us. I glance up, scanning the field as the white suits pass by, a note drops in my backet. I keep working. Classic looks at me, a sad and tired smile on his face. I toss another note into my basket. A note sits in his palm, and it hits me. Classic is going to die today. I shake my head at him, staring with wide eyes. He is going to die, and he has only a week left. I hiss under my breath, hoping to catch his attention. A week ago, I wouldn’t
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