***
I am woken at the crack of dawn by the sounds of a scuffle. Exclamations of discord. Boots scraping the pavement. I pry my eyes open and locate the source. One ragged figure hits another over the shoulder with a metal lid, causing him to fall sideways and scramble away. Still others are tugging on opposite ends of a jacket, each trying to take it from the other. The fabric starts to tear in the middle. Another grave robber is running away with old shoes, being chased by more beggars. Two are stripping the corpse of its pants. As one of them peels the pant legs off of the stiff appendages, another one is already rifling through the pockets, searching for anything of value. I sit up with a start, wondering if I should jump into the fray, but whatever there was of value is already long gone. So this is what happens when someone dies.
I realize quickly that I don't want to know what happens to the body. I struggle to my feet and hobble off, leaving the chaotic scene behind me.
I spend the day collecting refuse once again. This time I decide to make the extra effort of taking several trips back to the recycler in the hopes of concealing my income from the old woman. However, on the first trip I realize the futility when I notice her sitting in the mouth of a nearby alleyway, where she can see what happens in the marketplace. She must sit there all day, a jackal watching for prey. This is how she knows exactly how much money I make. And probably how much money others make as well. I try to think of an alternative way to sell my goods, but there is none. I have to make peace with the idea that I cannot hide my income from the old woman. She will take everything from me, except for that one coin, if she is feeling generous. This will happen every day. One coin is all I will ever have. One coin to buy a small, crumbling, stale cake that will not make up the energy I've lost trying to find things to sell.
I can't stand the idea that, after all my effort, I'll have no more than I have now. I will have nothing to save. No way out of this life. This is unacceptable. I cannot continue down this path. I have an alternative. I don't like it, but it's better than rotting in this rut.
I take to the quietest back alleys in my search for things to sell. I walk silently. I pause and listen. Hunting vermin is not easy, but the rewards are better than any I've found so far. I reserve one of my sacks for rat meat, and fill the other two with trash. When I return to the camp that night, I eat three rats. I feel almost full for the first time I can remember. And I have one coin tucked into my clothes. The next night I have two coins. The night after that, three. I reuse the poultice on my foot. It's not as potent, but it still seems to help, and the swelling is going down, the redness disappearing. On the fourth day, I realize that rat hunting does not bother me as much as it did before. It's becoming normal. I can almost ignore the smell of blood.
During this time, I continue to keep my eyes and ears open. I catch occasional glimpses of the two mysterious young men I saw walking together, and sometimes— probably too often— I follow them. They seem to have a deal with some of the merchants in the marketplace. But I learn that they are not the only exceptions to the rule. There are other small groups of loners that walk the Outpost untouched. They also look dangerous, and probably are. This is how they survive. They're too much trouble to be worth the effort. One day I watch a group of three sit on the edge of the sidewalk sharing a lunch of bread and cheese. All three of them are armed to the teeth. Two of them seem to defer to the third. She is young, built broad and stocky, and I think she could probably take a boy in a fight. There's a fierce glow in her eyes that reminds me of the old woman. I immediately dislike her because of this. But I watch her as much as I can. I study her actions and her body language. I wonder, could I do that? Could I pull that off? Look scary enough that everyone would leave me alone?
My stash of coins slowly builds up, and as it does, I begin to think of my long-term plan. What exactly will I do when I have enough? How much will I need to buy a new life? There are no certain answers to these questions. But one day I sit on the curb in the cold, in front of the Rustler, a bar that reminds me of an old-style cowboy saloon. The bar is a hub of news and gossip, so it's worth hanging around out front, but I don't spend a lot of time here because the place is usually crawling with Matthew's thugs and other scary characters. As I pause for just a moment today, I can see through the open front doors to a table where a group of men are playing cards. I watch them briefly, and as I do, something clicks inside me. I can see the cards of the man whose back is to me, can read the faces of his opponents. I know exactly what I would do if I held those cards. He does something different. The others take his money.
My heart skips a beat. My body turns, unconsciously, toward the door. I watch them deal the cards for the next hand. The man's cards are good this time. Bet more, I'm thinking, but he doesn't. He wins, but he could have taken a bigger pot. My mouth is hanging open as I watch them deal the third hand.
This time, his cards are decent, but he doesn't know what to do with them. The others' faces are stern, set, but a glance here, a shift of weight there, gives away their uncertainty. He could bluff his way to a win. Instead, he folds. Wrong again. I'm sure now, beyond all doubt, that I could have played it the right way, if those had been my cards. If.
My mind reels. Some of Matthew's men appear around the street corner and walk toward the saloon. There's a pig trailing along behind them— wearing a silver necklace! I do a double-take, get to my feet and hobble away, but my thoughts are racing. I have to get in on one of these games. There's no question of it. I simply have to. But how?
The following days are filled with a sort of feverish madness in which I'm consumed with the idea, plotting and planning, but never exactly figuring out how to accomplish it. I consider and discard a number of plans. I can't walk into the Rustler as a poxy beggar. I can't simply discard my disguise. This struggle between who I really am, and who I have to be, has consumed the whole of my existence since I woke up in the Outpost that first day. I begin to despair that I will never be able to move on. That I will always be like this. Every plan I can conceive of is full of risk. Every plan could end in disaster. I am frozen by inaction. Afraid, always, of being watched.
Then I remember the idea I once had. I am far more afraid of remaining like this than I am of losing my life. Even the threat of slavery does not seem all that much more horrifying than being like I am. Perhaps because I'm already a slave, in so many ways. I feel relieved— soothed, even— when it dawns on me that I am not beyond doing something desperate.
Embracing the madness, I form a plan. It will take far longer to enact than I would like. I have to make myself wait, force my own patience. I will only have one chance, and I can't screw it up.
I continue to save my coins slowly. Hanging around the fringes of the marketplace, I price a new set of clothing. It will take me at least a month more to save for the cheapest thing I can find, and I'll need some stake money on top of that. I feel sick at the thought of waiting so long, but what can I do?
Then one afternoon I'm collecting trash as usual when I hear a scream from an adjoining alleyway. I can't stop myself from peeking in to see what the source of the scream was.
As I look into the cross-alley, I see a dark figure running away. And lying with her head in a growing pool of blood, a woman's body. My eyes go wide as I gape at her. Her own eyes are open and staring, lightless, dead. I want to turn and run away. I know I should. If a Sentry comes now, drawn by her screams, it will kill me. But my feet move toward her, seizing the opportunity Fate has granted me. My hands tear her leather jacket unceremoniously from her dead body. She doesn't need it anymore, I tell myself. It doesn't matter. She flops out of it, her face dropping into the blood. I yank off her boots, peel off her pants, stuffing it all into my bag as I do. Her shirt is soaked with blood, so I leave it. I only just have time to take these items before I hear the clank of metal on pavement— a Sentry's footsteps
in the street beyond.
Instinct screams at me to run. Logic laughs that I am too late. If I run, the Sentry will track me by my heart rate. If I stay, I am as dead as the corpse I've just robbed.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and stride away, forcing down the urge to bolt. My heart throws itself repeatedly against my ribcage. No. No, no.
Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. I make the corner at the same time the Sentry makes the alley. Did it see me? Ninety-five. Ninety-four. Sit on the curb. Ninety-two. Breathe. Ninety. People walking by. Eighty-eight. Deep breaths. Slow heart. Is it coming? Eighty six. Movement from the alley. Oh god, it's coming. Eighty-four. Heat shimmer tickles my back. Eighty two. It's behind me. Scanning. Taking in everything. Eighty. I can't stop myself. I look. Seventy-eight. Void face. My fingers clutching my bag. Seventy-five. What if there's blood on the clothes? Can it see through my bag the way it sees through me? I'm going to die. Seventy-three. No. I will not allow fear to be my killer. No. Seventy-one. Slow. Seventy. Heart. Sixty-nine. Even. Sixty-seven. Breaths. Sixty-five. No. I did nothing wrong.
Sixty-three. Sixty-two. Sixty-one....
It walks past me and moves away.
Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six. Fifty-five. Fifty-four. Fifty-three. Fifty-two. Fifty-one.
I throw my head back and laugh.