They usually don’t pay attention
to the street orphans that sit on practically every corner of the Lake sector, and
on a good day, they’re too lazy to catch all the ones that attempt to steal food.
I reach the edge of the building. A drainage pipe runs along the side, shakily bolted
to the wall. Still, it seems strong enough to support my weight. I test it first by
tentatively putting one foot against it and giving it a good push. When it doesn’t
budge, I grab the pipe and slide all the way down into the building’s narrow alley.
My bad leg hits the pavement wrong—I lose my balance, then fall backward onto the
ground.
One of these days, this stupid knee will get better. I hope. And then I’ll finally
get to shimmy up and down these buildings the way I want to.
It’s a warm day. The smells of smoke, street food, grease, and ocean salt linger in
the air. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my threadbare shoes. Hardly anyone
notices me as I limp toward the pier—I’m just another slum sector boy, after all—but
then a girl heading off to school meets my gaze. She blushes when I look back, then
quickly glances away.
I pause at the water’s edge to adjust the cap on my head, making sure all my hair
is tucked underneath it. The orange and gold light reflecting off the water makes
me squint. Out along the pier, workers are stacking the food crates right next to
a little office where an inspector is typing up notes about the shipment. Now and
then he looks away and talks into an earpiece. I stay where I am for a while, watching
the pattern of the workers and the inspector. Then I glance down the street that runs
along the shore.
No street police in sight. Perfect.
When I’m sure no one’s looking, I hop down the edge of the bank and limp into the
shadows beneath the pier. Beams crisscross the pier’s underbelly, supporting it as
it juts out into the water. I grab some rocks from the mud near the water and shove
them into my pockets. Then I pull myself up into the maze of beams and start climbing
through them toward the crates. Salt water sprays me. The sound of waves lapping against
the pier mixes with the voices above.
“You hear about that girl too, yeah?”
“What girl?”
“You know. The
girl
, the one that got into Drake at, what,
twelve
—”
“Oh yeah, that one. She must have parents with a deep wallet. Hey, where’d
you
get sent to again?”
Some laughter. “Shut up. At least I got some schooling.”
The waves drown out their conversation again. Several muffled thuds sound out from
the planks over my head. They must be stacking crates here. I’ve reached the spot
right under the little office and the shipment of goods. I pause to readjust my footing.
Then I climb up several beams, grab the edge of the pier’s walkway, pull myself up,
and peek around.
The office is right over my head. The inspector stands on its far side, his back turned
to me. I scramble quietly up onto the walkway and huddle in the shadows of the office’s
wall. The rocks in my pocket clack against each other. I take one of them out while
keeping my eyes turned toward the workers. Then I fling the rock toward the boat as
hard as I can.
It hits the side of the boat with a loud thud, loud enough to get the attention of
the boat workers. Several of them turn toward the sound—others head over to it. I
take the chance and dart out from my hiding place, then make for the stack of crates.
I manage to skid right behind it before anyone catches sight of me. My heart thuds
frantically in my chest.
Every time I steal Republic supplies, I imagine myself getting captured and dragged
off to the local police headquarters. Getting my legs snapped, like what happened
to Dad. Or maybe I wouldn’t get taken to the headquarters at all. Maybe they’d just
shoot me dead right on the spot. I can’t make up my mind which would be worse.
Time’s
to the street orphans that sit on practically every corner of the Lake sector, and
on a good day, they’re too lazy to catch all the ones that attempt to steal food.
I reach the edge of the building. A drainage pipe runs along the side, shakily bolted
to the wall. Still, it seems strong enough to support my weight. I test it first by
tentatively putting one foot against it and giving it a good push. When it doesn’t
budge, I grab the pipe and slide all the way down into the building’s narrow alley.
My bad leg hits the pavement wrong—I lose my balance, then fall backward onto the
ground.
One of these days, this stupid knee will get better. I hope. And then I’ll finally
get to shimmy up and down these buildings the way I want to.
It’s a warm day. The smells of smoke, street food, grease, and ocean salt linger in
the air. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my threadbare shoes. Hardly anyone
notices me as I limp toward the pier—I’m just another slum sector boy, after all—but
then a girl heading off to school meets my gaze. She blushes when I look back, then
quickly glances away.
I pause at the water’s edge to adjust the cap on my head, making sure all my hair
is tucked underneath it. The orange and gold light reflecting off the water makes
me squint. Out along the pier, workers are stacking the food crates right next to
a little office where an inspector is typing up notes about the shipment. Now and
then he looks away and talks into an earpiece. I stay where I am for a while, watching
the pattern of the workers and the inspector. Then I glance down the street that runs
along the shore.
No street police in sight. Perfect.
When I’m sure no one’s looking, I hop down the edge of the bank and limp into the
shadows beneath the pier. Beams crisscross the pier’s underbelly, supporting it as
it juts out into the water. I grab some rocks from the mud near the water and shove
them into my pockets. Then I pull myself up into the maze of beams and start climbing
through them toward the crates. Salt water sprays me. The sound of waves lapping against
the pier mixes with the voices above.
“You hear about that girl too, yeah?”
“What girl?”
“You know. The
girl
, the one that got into Drake at, what,
twelve
—”
“Oh yeah, that one. She must have parents with a deep wallet. Hey, where’d
you
get sent to again?”
Some laughter. “Shut up. At least I got some schooling.”
The waves drown out their conversation again. Several muffled thuds sound out from
the planks over my head. They must be stacking crates here. I’ve reached the spot
right under the little office and the shipment of goods. I pause to readjust my footing.
Then I climb up several beams, grab the edge of the pier’s walkway, pull myself up,
and peek around.
The office is right over my head. The inspector stands on its far side, his back turned
to me. I scramble quietly up onto the walkway and huddle in the shadows of the office’s
wall. The rocks in my pocket clack against each other. I take one of them out while
keeping my eyes turned toward the workers. Then I fling the rock toward the boat as
hard as I can.
It hits the side of the boat with a loud thud, loud enough to get the attention of
the boat workers. Several of them turn toward the sound—others head over to it. I
take the chance and dart out from my hiding place, then make for the stack of crates.
I manage to skid right behind it before anyone catches sight of me. My heart thuds
frantically in my chest.
Every time I steal Republic supplies, I imagine myself getting captured and dragged
off to the local police headquarters. Getting my legs snapped, like what happened
to Dad. Or maybe I wouldn’t get taken to the headquarters at all. Maybe they’d just
shoot me dead right on the spot. I can’t make up my mind which would be worse.
Time’s
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