“I asked,” I say. “You answered.”
I turn and walk away, pulse pounding, the corridor swallowing me up in its darkness. I don’t look back. But I know they’re watching. They’re always watching.
41
VI
The Rot eats together.
Not in some cozy, communal way. More like survival in the open.
A part of the food court is sectioned off with a crude wall, as if we need privacy. What remains of the old colorful signs touting pizza and teriyaki chicken is faded and half torn down. The counters where burgers and smoothies were once sold are stripped to concrete and metal. Long scavenged tables stretch across the space, mismatched chairs pulled from everywhere. Lanterns hang from old support beams, casting uneven light across the room.
It smells like cheap fast food, greasy and burnt.
People line up at one of the former fast-food counters where Runts dish out whatever passes for dinner—stew,bread, something fried I can’t identify. No menus. No choices. You take what you get.
I grab a dented metal tray and fall into line. No one bothers me. Some glance. Most don’t. I’m learning what looks mean nothing and which mean everything. When I reach the front, a woman dumps a scoop of stew onto my tray and slides a chunk of bread beside it.
“Move.”
I do. I scan the tables, looking for an empty spot. Most groups are already formed. Rotters laughing loudly. Runts clustered together, quieter, guarded. I finally spot an open chair near the end of a table where a few women sit eating. I slide in.
One of them looks up. Young. Dark hair pulled into a messy bun. Tired eyes. “You’re new,” she says.
“Is it that obvious?”
She snorts. “You’re clean.”
I glance down at my shirt, already smudged from work but apparently not enough. “Give it time.”
“You’re Vi, right?”
“Word travels fast.”
She shrugs. “Permanent Runt. Chosen by the half-skeleton boys. Yeah. It traveled.”
Great.
We eat in silence for a few moments, the stew tasting like salt and whatever meat they could get their hands on. I’m hungrier than I realized.
“Where they stick you?” she asks eventually.
“A room near the old jewelry store,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “You got one of the good ones. Butyou might get one even better if you play your cards right?”
“Better?” I repeat.
“Door locks. No leaks. Some of them are just curtained-off corners.” She pauses. “You got a bed?”
“A narrow bunk.”
“Not bad.”
I snort despite myself.
“Where’d you get those boots?” she asks.
