“How many are posted at that back gate?”
“Two.”
“What happens if more than one woman misbehaves?”
“They both haul compost.”
“Still one guard?”
“Yes. Just one. But another girl tried it a few months back. She got away from her escort, but she was shot by the guards at the gate.”
“So we need to make sure we’re far enough away before they realize what’s happening.”
“How?”
“We’ll have to make sure the escort can’t shoot or sound the alarm.” My voice is cool and matter-of-fact, but the thought actually fills me with a reluctance so strong it dampens my hope.
I’ve killed people before. Quite a few. But always from a distance with a gun and only when they were an active threat to me. I’ve never killed someone at close quarters with a knife before, and I really don’t want to do it now.
But I will. Of course I will.
It’s the only way we’re ever getting out of here.
“Compost always at this time of day?” I ask.
“Yes, but it’s a twice-a-day thing.” Her voice wobbles just slightly, and I see a shaky kind of hope on her face when I glance over. “They also haul compost first thing in the morning. Before dawn.”
“Perfect. We’ll do it tomorrow morning then. Just follow my lead this evening.”
“Okay.” Burgundy makes a raspy breath. I have no idea how she’s managed to survive here for so long when I can barely make it through one day. “I will.”
That evening,I’m once again given slicing mountains of onions and peppers as my task in meal prep. It’s obviously the job given to the woman at the bottom of the heap.
I’ve got a huge bowl full of them when Ruth, the bossy woman who taught me baking this morning, walks by behind me and bumps into me. Deciding that’s the perfect opportunity, I jump as though she startled me and make a sudden move.
My big bowl of sliced vegetables ends up on the floor.
“Oh no!” I exclaim in a tone I’d never use for real. “You pushed me!”
“I did not. That mess is your own fault,” she tells me with a roll of her eyes.
I kneel down and start collecting strewn pieces of onion and peppers from the floor. When Burgundy catches my discreet look, she kneels down to help.
“What happened here?” Mary, the matron, has come over to see what caused the ruckus. “You spilled all this food on the floor!”
“It wasn’t my fault. Ruth bumped me. I think she did it on purpose.” I’m intentionally sounding quite grumbly now.
“Ruth would never do such a thing, and you should know better than to blame others for your failings. You’re going to have to wash and dry all these vegetables so they aren’t contaminated by the floor. Do it quickly, and be more careful next time.”
I really don’t like to be bossed around—I never have—so it doesn’t take much pretense to make my tone bad-tempered. “It wasn’t my fault. And it’s not fair that?—”
“Not another word,” the matron snaps coldly.
“It’s really not fair,” I mutter, soft but still audible.
“That’s it. You get compost duty tomorrow morning.”
“What?” I’m loud and outraged. “But I didn’t?—”
