“What are you doing?” I breathe, getting a good whiff of her vanilla-almond scent.
“Checking to see if you hit your head, too.” Taurance releases my cheeks only to run her delicate fingers through my hair, mussing my tangled curls. “No lumps or swelling. Tell me if I touch a sore spot.”
I duck away from her meddling grip. “My head is fine, Taur.”
The twins wear mirrored arched brows, and I can’t help but note the deep circles beneath their matching eyes. These last few hours have been a lot. Between the earthquake upending our escape plans, a stranger showing up on our doorstep with Taur’s unconscious sister, and my delayed return, I can’t really blame either of them for being unwilling to accept this latest turn of events as truth.
“That five-foot drop into the trench looked like it hurt. Maybe it sloshed your brain around a bit.” Gem eases back onto her cot and shrugs, like that’s more believable than the absurdity of me being exposed to sunlight.
“What you went through was traumatic,” Taurance says over her shoulder as she rises from her chair to roam the cupboard. Snatching a tin of crackers, she adds, “It’s not unheard of for trauma to cause hallucinations. I’ve seen it a few times in the postpartum ward. Mothers complaining about someone wailing when all the newborns in the nursery are fast asleep. Just last week, there was a mother who drifted off with her son still latched, though she swore she remembered tucking him back in the crib.”
She pops a cracker into her mouth, then reaches on her tiptoes towards the slightly crooked wall shelf for the peach jam I mashed and jarred last night.
I wave at my empty womb. “I’m not a postpartum mother.”
“All I’m saying is you wouldn’t be the first to misremember something after experiencing mental and physical shock,” Taurance says, still struggling to reach the jam.
Grabbing the jar for her and unscrewing the lid, I relent, thoughintuition tells me otherwise. “Maybe you’re right.”
The last thing I want to do is add to their worries. Though none of us dare to point out the repercussions of this morning’s failures, our hunched shoulders say enough about the weight of the impending selection ceremony. Gem’s earlier words are more prudent than ever.
“This is your tenth year of eligibility, Orelle. If you don’t leave, they will draft you.”
Our fears may be proven wrong. Perhaps there’s a future reality where the three of us stroll out of that shadow-forsaken ceremony with none of our names called. I cling to that image, pleading to the merciful darkness for it to manifest, as I reach around Taurance’s shoulder to grab a few crackers from the tin, only to find it empty.
A young boypulls at his oversized navy shirt, using it to hold as many of the glossy red apples from the top of the produce stand as he can fit in the stretched cotton. I kneel at his right, hunching over to grab the two bruised fruits sitting abandoned on the bottom shelf, placing them in my basket alongside the wilted broccoli florets, sprouting white potatoes, and a can of kidney beans with an expiration date of last week.
An apple slips from the kid’s little fingers. I fetch it before the perfectly ripe fruit can touch the scuffed granite floor of the food bank. “Here you go.”
The boy’s green eyes crinkle at the sides. “Thank you, ma?—”
“Thereyou are,” a woman with the same chestnut locks as the boy says as she rushes around a barrel of watermelons at the end of the aisle. She reaches to grab her son’s shoulders while cradling a sleeping baby wrapped snugly against her chest. “What did I tellyou about running off?”
The kid lifts his bounty and beams. “Look, Mama!”
The mother smiles, though it doesn’t reach her hooded eyes. “Isee. You plan on eating all of those?”
He bobs his head up and down, but his grin falters as he spots me rising from my squat to place the fallen apple back on the top shelf. “Mine!”
I pause, turning to the boy’s mother, whose lips pull back down when she spots me. I lift the shiny red fruit like an offering. “He accidentally dropped this, but it should be good. I grabbed it before it could touch the floor.”
The woman grimaces, but the boy doesn’t wait long for his mother’s approval. Raising up on his tiptoes, his little fingers clench around the apple, forehead puckering as he catches sight of the marred skin on the back of my left hand.
I hold back a wince while tucking my arm inside the shawl.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at the concealed scar.
His mother ushers him into the next aisle over, yet doesn’t lower her voice to explain, “She got her marriage brand taken away.”
“Why?”
“Well, she didn’t do what she was supposed to . . .”
My cheeks prickle as I walk towards the attendant’s stand on the opposite side of the food bank, even though I haven’t checked off everything on my list. It’s slim pickings today, anyway. Stock is always low around the Hunt, especially for the items available to those in my tier.
No resident has to pay for food or housing, courtesy of Caligo’s generosity. But it’s a skewed generosity based on our level of societal contribution. At the bottom are the women like me—unwed and childless. Tier Three is our legal classification, though most call usfeeders, rats, bottom-shelfers, or eligibles, if they’re feeling benevolent. Our unused uteruses and unbranded hands mean we haven’t earned the privileges given to those in the upper two tiers.
I take my place at the back of the line, shuffling the basket to my opposite arm while I wait.
