***
Once true starvation starts to set in, I'll have little hope of survival. I have to get food today. I hoist my bag and my metal stick, and limp toward the marketplace. The slave market in the distance seems to offer another option— trading freedom for food. Bile rises in my throat. I am not a slave. I will never be a slave. Not even if it means death. Freedom has to come before food. I have to remember that, even when weakness tries to make me forget.
I approach the recycler. This time he sees me coming. He lifts his chin in disbelief. His jaw sets, eyes narrow. I stop a few paces away and hold out the bag.
He turns his back on me. He doesn't even say anything, just turns his back.
I will not let him do this. But what option do I have? I can't tell him I'm not poxy. I can't trust him with that.
For a while, he makes himself unnecessarily busy organizing the contents of his boxes, and I stand there like an idiot, chewing on my lip. Anger and frustration stir and swirl inside me. I move closer, just a touch. He glances nervously over his shoulder, catching the movement. My eyes narrow. I do have power over him. I just need to use it without getting in trouble.
Stubbornly, I hold out the bag. He goes back to his sorting. I shuffle a step closer. He keeps sorting, but I can see the muscles in his back tighten.
Someone approaches from the side— two older women carrying a few bags each over their shoulders. They're preoccupied with conversation at first, but when their eyes finally fall on me, they stop short. They hesitate, glance at each other, then turn back the way they came. The recycler's eyes flick to me. I step closer and plant my feet. I can stand here all day if I need to.
But it only takes one more ruined transaction to convince him that I mean to do just that. "Fine," he barks, and whirls on me, pointing at the ground in front of him. I toss my bag to his feet. He upends its contents with the toe of his boot. He eyeballs the loot, then kicks my bag back toward me and flings two coins— not the same ones I saw him give the boy yesterday— purposely past me. I scramble to pick them off the ground. I am victorious. Shiny metal pressed into the palm of my hand, I'm going to eat. I can think of nothing else.
I hurry down the street, remembering a peddler I saw yesterday selling small cakes to people who looked hardly less ragged than me. I've limped one full block and turned into an alleyway when she catches up to me.
"You," she hisses, a few feet behind me. I stop in confusion at first, then, glancing back, recognize the old woman with knotted hands. I meet her gaze as she approaches fearlessly, like I don't have the pox. There seems hardly any point in pretending I do. Maybe I don't have to be completely alone. The thought is warm inside me. I might be human. I'm about to offer to share a cake with her when she sticks out her hand, palm up.
I eyeball it, then her face, my own twisting in confusion.
"Don't make this harder, girl," she says stiffly. "Hand it over."
I gape at her stupidly, then with dawning horror. As I shrink away from her, she grabs my wrist with her bony, lumpy hand, her yellow nails digging into my skin. I try to pull away, but she holds tight.
"Give me the money," she hisses, "or I tell the slavers you are no poxy old woman."
I stammer, then yank my hand angrily from her grip. I glare at her and consider my options. Forcing myself to breathe evenly, jaw clamped, I place one of the coins in her talons.
She frowns at me as though I've done something she disapproves of.
"I'll give you another tomorrow," I say, and hear my own voice shaking. Has she really just threatened to give me over to the slavers? I'm so angry, and so terrified. My whole body is trembling out of control.
"You most certainly will," she agrees. "And you'll give me this one, too. And you'll give me some the next day."
My eyes go wide, realizing the full extent of her blackmail. This could go on forever. I have no real recourse. Not unless I'm willing to kill her right here in this alleyway. I glance past her at the people on the street. Noise of movement at the end of the alley behind me makes my skin prickle. An accomplice? No, I can't kill her. Not here.
Her clawed hand is still outstretched, waiting for its pay.
"Not if I die of starvation," I snap at her. "If you want something tomorrow, you'll let me keep enough to eat something. Otherwise, you won't get a damned thing."
Her eyes narrow, the lines around them deepening until her face looks like tree bark. She says, "Maybe you don't understand, you little bitch. I gave you food. You're mine now. This is mine." She seizes my hand and rips the last coin from it, her jagged nails tearing my skin, clamping down. Her spittle showers my face as she barks her final threat: "Learn it fast, or you're dead."
I bare my teeth at her, rage welling within me. Death is nothing compared to this. But she reads my mind, and goes on, before I can challenge her.
"The slavers pay a good price for the right information," she sneers, revealing her own twisted, mottled-ochre teeth. "I can get my money out of you that way. But I can't imagine you'd like it, being some greasy old man's pet. Of course, you wouldn't care. They have ways of taking that out of you." She turns and marches away, and, glancing back at me over her shoulder, adds, "There better be more than this tonight." Then she's gone. My money— my hope of food— is gone. And I'm still shaking. I lower myself slowly to the ground and take a few moments to calm myself. I try to accept what has happened and move on, but even as I pull myself up and start walking, my teeth are grinding, my fists clenched. I'm consumed with anger. How dare she threaten me like this. How dare she take away something I've worked so hard for. How dare she make me trust her only for the sake of manipulation. Piled on this is anger at myself for not seeing it coming.
Two things I am thinking as I pick my way through the alleys looking for safe bits of trash to steal: The deceptive, by their nature, can appear to be trustworthy. And information is deadly valuable.