“I know whose it is,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“Then take it.”
“You ran upper cistern paths before dawn,” he says, jaw flexing.
“And?”
“You have lower corridor duty until second dim.”
“I know my duties.”
“If you don’t eat, you fall. If you fall, someone else carries your route. We lose more than one portion.”
I press the token flat beneath two fingers.
“I won’t fall.”
“Everyone says that before they do.”
Behind me, someone coughs. A child, by the sound. The cough is dry enough that every adult in the chamber pretends not to hear it. I push the token farther across the table. Emon stares for a long breath. Then, with the careful anger of a man who has no right to spend it, he takes the token and marks the slate.
My stomach cramps as if it understands before the rest of me does. Good. Pain means I’m still sharp enough to notice it.
I gather the portions into the shallow carry basket. Meat twist for Mira. Cave root for Tal. Seed mash for Jessa. Hide-meat for Orin. The other root for Anik.
My own name stays on the slate, unfed. I rub it away with the heel of my hand. Emon watches me do it.
“You can’t keep cutting yourself out of the count.”
I lift the basket. It’s lighter than it should be. Everything is lighter than it should be.
“Of course I can.”
I turn before he answers and step through the arch.
The corridor outside is cooler than the chamber, but only because it’s carved deeper and faces away from the suns. The walls are old red stone veined with pale mineral lines, worn smooth where generations of hands have touched them for balance. A curtain of woven reed hangs over the next passage to keep hot air from breathing down from the upper levels.
People stand in two uneven lines.
City survivors stand still, eyes lowered, hands folded or braced against the wall to conserve strength. Newcomers openly stare at the basket. Hungrily. I don’t blame them. They still look at food like wanting it might bring it closer.
A little boy near the arch watches my hands. His gaze flicks to the basket, then to the slate tucked under my arm. He knows. Children always see the missing things first. I give him a small shake of my head. Not a warning. A lesson.
Do not say what cannot be fixed.
He closes his mouth, understanding, and not asking the question. He’s learning.
I move down the corridor, measuring every step by heat cost, breath cost, hunger cost. The City curves around me in layers of stone and shadow. Old chambers stacked beneath older chambers. Cool pockets guarded like treasure. Somewhere above, the twin suns hammer the surface hard enough to blister skin. Down here, survival lives in shade, ration marks, and the discipline not to ask for more.
We survive by becoming careful. Small. Quiet. Less. I learned that before I learned to read. My stomach cramps again, sharper this time. I breathe through it without slowing.
At the next bend, a newcomer woman stands nose-to-nose with one of the City guards, one arm wrapped around a bundle of patched cloth.
“My daughter needs water,” the woman says.
The guard keeps his voice low. “Everyone needs water.”
“She has fever.”
