I lift my eyelids open when an exchange of words clamors from the outside of the house. As I jerk my hands forward, hitting the hard plank, a handful of dust with some sand in it falls into the gap in the floor and directly down to my face. It must've been blown by the wind last night. Of course it was. The clefts on the bottom frame of the door have gotten wider for small debris to pass through. It needs fixing. Soon. I click my tongue while groping for the small key inside my thin pockets. Where the hell is it? I remember putting it into my left yesterday's . . . There. Found you.

I insert the key into the padlock and then twist it harshly. I feel the scales of the dry rust descending down my cold palms. I unfasten the creaking latches, giving my ears discomfort, and push the trapdoor open. A loud thud sounds. I need new locks for the trapdoor. They've served as little warriors for me for more or less three years. It warms my heart. Sad though. I wonder if Fionn has them for today.

I dust the powders and rust off my clothes and skin and then rise to my feet. Stomping like a toddler on a tantrum, I head for the kitchen. I sit down on the wooden stool that lacks one leg, still stable though, and then put the cubically framed netted cover off the table. The tart odor of the sautéed bok choy and venison cubes fills in my nostrils. Just wow.

I look down upon the water-filled basin, to deter the ravenous ants, and then at the dish in a small china bowl settled in the middle of it. As I said, just wow. The oil where the dish is sautéed in is already bubbling up. The dish is nothing but spoiled, and I can't help but dig right into it. The rancid, acrid taste invades my whole mouth. I love my life.

After doubtfully swallowing the last bit of the unsavory venison cubes, I gulp the remaining, cold water from a glass. I go to the narrow bathroom and look at the alga-embellished drum of water — quarter-full. I think I'll be meeting the siblings later. I need the drum filled again. I don't know, but I don't feel like doing chores. They weird me out. More like faintly depress me.

I unclothe myself and then hunker down below the sloping roof. I shower my bare body with the biting water, the liquids seeping into the tight gaps of planks. After satisfying myself with enough coldness, I dry myself up and dress in rough jeans full of rips and a white sleeveless undershirt. I've worn these twice this week already, excluding this day. My shirt smells like the grilled fowl feet sold on the streets inside the Hedge. Lovely and comforting. Best temporary remedy for the already trite aftertaste of molding edibles. I wonder when I'll lie unconscious and lifeless on the streets. My ghost would be so glad to see how people just pass by a corpse nonchalantly. Typical ending for . . . That's it.

I pull my wet hair back and then put my antiquated shoulder bag on. I throw a cocky smile at my reflection in the mirror before standing before the door. I look at the clefts and roll my eyes. I unlock the doorknob and then swing the door open. The winds of poverty and mortality envelop my whole frame hurriedly. I walk over the threshold and then shut the door behind me. It's an overclouded day I can't even spot the azure shade of the sky.

The narrow alleys and streets are flooded people or Scavengers—nickname given to us people of the Slums by the higher-ups and used by some chesty Hedgemen. Every building standing is a heap of two to three stories of different households. Adults are on their busy schedules while kids sweep the garbage bins, looking for good stuff. For something to trade in the Hedge, I mean. For food, really.

The Slums are never better. Home for junkies, thieves, illegal hunters, and even murderers, the place will always be of worse-than-bad reputation. Felonies and misdemeanors reign in the deepest, darkest shadows, and no one cares. Why would they? They even built the three towering walls, the Wallbirds.

I dodge every approaching person in my way. It's nice to socialize, but it's nicer to be impressive today. For the job application. For official residence. And, although the possibility is zero to none, to reside permanently in the Tribe. I've always wanted to be in the Walls, but it solely harbors the higher-ups and Silverfists, so being a member of the Tribe, or inside the Hedge, is better than best. For Scavengers. Like me.

I turn to a wider street and then stop before a two-story building. This is the siblings' home. I knock on the door and then, after some forever, the door creaks open. A pair of tired eyes meet me. I just smirk, and then retreat to a fake smile. This is ridiculous.

"A great morning, Kehinde," I greet.

Kehinde just stares at me. Why the hell is she like this? I understand that she's been under great distress—her boyfriend batters him—and I don't want to know the reason, but she's losing it, day by day. I guess. Whatever. She's just getting creepier day by day.

"Have your second-story neighbors woken up yet, Kehinde?" I say again.

She then nods. Thank the Nine Isles. I just pocket my cold hands and wait for some time until Adaku and Haoyang, eight and nine respectively, appear beside me, both wearing delighted beams. I raise a brow at Kehinde and then she closes the door shut. I crouch in front of the kids and wink at them.

"So . . ." I trail off, "can you two please fill up my drum?"

Haoyang crosses his arms. "Um, how much?"

Of course. Payment. I've always admired these two not just because they've survived without their irresponsible parents, but also because they've gotten into the system of transactions. Hedgemen's children will never ever be able to be like them. Not even a quarter of a quarter of a quarter of a percentage. Impossible.

Adaku and Haoyang, as infants, were thrown out of their houses when a man they call Hachim took and raised them as if they were his until his execution last month. I can still remember how the kids cried their souls out. Screw those Wallbirds. Hedgemen included. After the tragedy, the siblings tried to go with the Slum's flow. Gathering, trading, and even burying corpses on the Bay.

I pout at the two. "I'll give you two zincs each."

The kids look at each other while making way for a moving cart. I smirk at their exchange of stares. I guess they must've collected enough zincs. Twenty zincs are one bronze. A bronze is already enough to feed you two loaves of bread, sufficing three days' of meals if managed strictly. These kids indeed are getting a bronze later this day.

"Deal," says Adaku while beaming.

I jounce my head. "I don't want to see more than an inch of the drum unfilled, got me?"

"Aye," responds Haoyang, and then they go back inside as Kehinde opens the door for them.

I tighten my jaws and then resume walking, sidestepping dirty scavengers on my way. I notice the thunderheads above thickening, so I run through the crowds of the filthy Slums until I reach the end of the feeder. Woah. I pant. At last. I don't want my clothes to smell a like rotting mouse. I like the smell of the Slums. Smells likes home. This day isn't just the day to enjoy home. Such an irony for a person who's worn the same clothes thrice a week.

I jog along the sidewalk of the dry, dusty road. Beasts of burden. The wheat farmers. How busy was the dawn? I raise a brow at two women looking at me. They look like gossiping. What have I done again? You know what? Screw them.

I then walk into Sora's bakeshop. I always stop here before coming into the Hedge. This is one of the only two food shops, the other being a small noodle stall on some other feeder, who've survived despite the nights of idiotic criminal activities. Understandable, because Sora lives with his brothers. Bulky, ex-criminal brothers. But they changed eventually, and it sounds . . . awful? It's not right to . . . I don't know the whole story though.

I beam at Sora. "Morning, miss."

"Oh, Fabio," she greets. "The same stuff?"

"Same stuff it is," I say.

The aroma of the dough being baked dwells in my nose. So mouth-watering. Sora then hands me a paper packet of two sweet mung bean paste-filled buns. I give her six zincs. Left in my bag is eighteen. I nod at her and then get out of the bakeshop. 'Eighteen zincs, huh?' I tell myself as I put the buns into the bag. It's still going to suffice me for some time. I guess. Anyway, I'm going to get the job. 'Please, job. Be in love with me,' I mentally chant. 'Or I'll be insane every night.' Well, I will be eventually, I guess.

I considered robbing a store when I was seventeen, when I really had nothing to fill my stomach with. It was chaotic. At the gates of the Hedge, I was already standing before the cart of an old lady, filled with columns of sweet flatbreads. I was thinking of grabbing some handfuls and just screeching away. I looked at the old lady who greeted me with such twinkling eyes. She was old, with white hair, slouched shoulder, arching back. My heart stopped working for a while and then my hands, which were about to snatch the bread, retreated. I felt disgusting. Jokes on you, Fabio. I smile at the still vivid memory. No, not really. I didn't pity the woman. Some Silverfists were just on duty at that time. I could've seized the edible treasures since the woman obviously was slower than a tree snail. But I've also never wanted to end up in the Pits — the abode of the sinful. I could've died on that day actually. Pshaw.

I zip my bag close and, by the time I lift my vision, a Silverfist is already looking daggers at me. His eyebrows crumple and lips purse. Of course they're here. They'll never leave this place. Ever. I don't know if they patrol the Slums because it's their oath to keep the order on the whole island or they just drudge because the First Wallbirds say so. I believe more in the latter. Carrying automatic hand bows and iron-hard suits, Silverfists are the armed force of the island. They guard the Walls, the Hedge, the Slums, and the Bay. That's why I'm headed for the Tribe, where people are in no Silverfist's sight. Rules are rules so.

I wear the fakest smile I've done yet on this day. The Silverfist and I have patiently participated in a staring duel until he finally snaps out of it. He rolls his eyes and then takes off in the opposite direction. I know what he was, and still is deeming. Just by his action, he thinks I'm a robber, or whatever criminal related. That's all they do anyway. It sucks. But not to me. I love how they burn holes into my face with endless, majestic falsehood.

I then traipse away. It's going to be a long walk. The Slums and the Tribe are, subjectively, two kilometers distant from each other. I've gone to the Tribe for a couple of times. It harbors hunter-gatherers, farmers, and handicrafters. They're able to live without zincs. Thanks to their agility, manual abilities, and farms that can supply food for a quarter of the Slums. They were originally from the Hedge. I have no information as to what made them move out of the place. It's all secured. There are lights. Maybe they just got tired of some arrogant Hedgemen. I'm going there to apply for a job that I'm confident in getting.

I've been walking all through the end of the morning. I've eaten half of one bun. I'm thirsty. I can't afford a bowl of water. I mean I can. I just don't want to spend my remaining zincs. Four of these are already reserved for Adaku and . . . Wait. Have they . . . I fumble in my pockets for the key to my little house and . . . Yeah, I think they got it. Slick heads.

After some more minutes, which seem a lifetime. I can already see the canopy of the woods. I'm nearing the tribe. Upon spotting a carriage pulled by a domestic ass over my shoulder, I halt and then jounce my head at the man who leads it. The man puts off his straw hat and smiles at me.

"Good day, sir," I say.

"Hey, young man." He smiles. "Are you somehow part of the new hunter-gatherer apprentices?"

"Um, yes? Yes, I am."

"Good. You can join me along."

"Thanks." I wipe the invisible sweat on both of my temples. I hope the man saw me. My heart jumps in its place as . . .

"Here, some water." He throws me a cylindrical, transparent receptacle that contains water. "Fresh from the streams."

See? Faking things bestows good outcomes upon people. At least they do to me. That's all that matters. They live, I live. They die, I live still. Let all be miserable, not just me. Adaku and Haoyang are included in the exclusion. I've got to protect those precious, hardworking, worthy-of-riches kids at all costs. Not from chores though. I drink mouthfuls of water. Hydration. More important than money. Money buys liquids, so money is somewhat necessary to survive as well. Somewhat?

I thank the man and then we continue to trace the path of broken bricks we've just turned to that eventually leads us to the heaven itself — the Tribe. I utter another gratitude to the man again, which he just nods and smirks at, and then we part ways. I go along a row of well-grown tomatoes and then pick one fruit before somebody sees me. All successful. I go into an empty backyard and obsessively smell the tomato. Flawless, healthy skin and perfect round shape. I open my mouth and by the time my teeth puncture the fruit, a young lady is already standing akimbo before me. Well, shits happen. But this is a different kind of shit. A very problematic one.

The lady looks so fixedly to me to the point that her eyelids slowly shut by themselves. I chew on the juicy tomato and bow my head. I throw the fruit into a thicket of blinding jungle flames and then the lady clicks her tongue. She marches towards me and I know what's going to happen next. What on the Nine Isles should I do? I intentionally close my eyes and wait for this creepy, although pretty, lady to shout at the top of her lungs. I've been ironically eager to hear her 'Guys, there's a thief here!,' 'Ban him for some time from entering the Tribe!,' or the most disturbing one yet - 'Cross out his name on the apprenticeship list!' I sigh and clench my jaws and fists at those internal sentences. But, suddenly . . .

The lady chuckles. Her voice is music to my ear, not because she's heavenly beautiful — well, that's another thing — but because I feel like she's not going to put me into some situational hellholes. At least I think she won't. I have to verify it as well, so I open my eyes and purposely rub my nape. I make myself look ignorant of the rules here by gently biting my whole lower lip.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say. "Is a Scavenger not allowed to put fingers on even the smallest of the leaves in your heavenly village?"

She crosses her seemingly soft arms. "You're trying to flirt so hard it makes me laugh."

What on Nine Isles. Was I that obvious? This lady sure knows how to make a man insecure on the very first date. I slouch my shoulders and let out a deep breath. Her straight, black hair dances through the gusts of wind. Her eyes sparkle from the hazy noon light. Her skin is rich brown. And her lips are as red as the jungle flame. She's a living . . .

The lady smirks. "I have a girlfriend."

"Just what I thought," I lie. She's a beauty, I'll give it to her. I should've known. "Anyway, are you going to tell the chief about me picking fruits like I own them?"

"How can I?" She puts out a few knives from her small bag. She's an apprentice as well. She then shakes her head and puts back her stuff in the bag. "You didn't expect?"

Of course I didn't. How could I? We continue to have small chats along the way to the headquarters. Her name is Sevinj. I'm more than shocked when she says her family is Hedgemen. She also tells me a sensitive reason why she's applying for a permanent residency in the Tribe—her father almost sold her to pay for their long-time score. Her father, she says, is insane as he also tried to put her other sister up for renting to the Wallbird lechers. After the incident, all of her sisters fled to the Peaks. They've been fine and now married. It's sad to hear her story. It really is. But I get tired of them. They're common happenings inside the Hedge. No wonder why some lam out of the place. It's all hellhole. Which I find exciting. Am I bad? I am . . . not. I love being inside the Hedge. I don't know, but the survival is in there.

Sevinj and I enter the headquarters and we sit on the vacant bamboo chairs. There are a couple of other people of our age around us. All eager to reside in the Tribe. Can't blame them. They don't need zincs if they know how to gather edibles, shoot squirrels, plant wheat, and weave fabrics. 'The Tribe is life per se.' I've heard this redundant slogan of the Scavenger elderly. Honestly, I don't know why the chief of this prize place approved my proposal for an apprenticeship. They barely include people from the Slums because of our not-that-good backgrounds. Maybe he just pitied me. Did I sound that pathetic in the letter I sent them? Maybe, which sounds completely ridiculous. I don't want to hunt because I want to be part of the tribe, really. I'm here to survive. They've got some geniuses here, which means more lights.

'The more your place is bathed in light, the higher you'll survive the night.' The generic rule for everybody.