Sam spent the better part of the day at the flea market, bouncing from tent to tent and searching the stacks of junk for something special. All the while he fought a losing battle against the dust blowing in his face and burning his eyes. The grit looked and tasted like rust, but he knew it was topsoil eroding away and taking the local economy with it.
He was about to give up his search and go find an indoor shop when he saw a small wooden box sitting between an oil lamp and a pile of yellowed magazines. He picked it up and brushed the dust from the top, enjoying the smooth texture of the decorative carvings. He couldn't believe his luck. It was a music box like the one Anna's momma used to have—right down to the yellow flowers etched onto the lid.
He turned it over and cranked the key. Then he opened it and heard a familiar tune. He smiled; it was perfect. Well, almost. It was a knockoff, of course, but Anna wouldn't mind. She'd know he couldn't afford an original. He shook his head and smiled when he thought of Anna's momma smuggling hers from Earth on board that colony ship.
What a woman she'd been. She was an Original in every sense of the word, and the music box was all Anna had left of her. But that was before some drunken green heads broke into her trailer and smashed it. If he'd known Anna back then, he would've busted some heads over that.
No one had picked on Anna since they got hitched, though. Sam had made sure of it. It didn't matter how many locals were out there hiding behind masks and burning banners—he'd protect his own.
Sam made his purchase and made his way back to his truck. He'd spent too much, but he didn't care. He had to see Anna's face when he gave it to her. He wouldn't wait until her store closed. He'd surprise her at work. And when her face erupted into a broad smile, like he knew it would, he'd laugh and pretend he didn't know how much it meant to her.
He set the box beside him on the seat and closed the door just as something crashed into his windshield. He jerked his head up.
“Go home fucking half-breed!”
A green-skinned kid stood in the parking lot staring at the brand on the side of Sam’s face, making obscene gestures. Sam sighed and then pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need this. It was why he hated leaving the camps. Sam’s father had been a local, one who'd even fought for custody when Sam was five. But Sam had chosen to stay with his mother. Now that choice was burnt into his cheek for every punk kid to see—as if his Original skin tone wasn’t enough of a marker.
Sam wasn't afraid, but he didn't want trouble. He had a family to think about. And when trouble started, the Original always paid for it.
Sam opened his eyes in time to see a middle-aged woman, who’d just got out of her car, stop walking and look at the boy. Then she eyed Sam, gasped, and limped back to her car. If that didn't beat all. Some no good trouble making kid was harassing him with rocks, and that fool woman was afraid of him.
He shook his head and started his truck.
“You running?” the boy said.
Sam looked at the kid and thought about teaching him a thing or two about running. Instead, he put his truck in gear and headed into town.