I’ve never been diagnosed with depression. Dad told me Mom had depression and I hear it’s genetic. But we’re not supposed to talk about that anymore so I try my best not to show it, especially after what happened to Mom. The reality is everyone in Okeanos has secrets. Those who hide them best live the longest. So whenever the blanket of despair wraps me so tight I can’t move, I just lie still and stare at the ceiling above as the war in my head wages on. It’s like a vegetative-state where I’m too tired to move but not tired enough to fall asleep. Still, it’s better than the alternative. Heaven knows what might happen if depression surfaced on one of my medical assessments.

  Last night’s war was particularly exhausting. I’m a serial worrier so the Chancellor’s latest round of restrictions didn’t help. But the other reason I couldn’t get my REM to cooperate is because last night was Monday. Monday nights are oftentimes the worst nights for me. After all, it’s the night before Tuesday. And Tuesday’s are the worst. By every metric, every rubric, every scale, every possible way you can evaluate something.

  Every Tuesday we are required by punishment of water credit reduction to wear the color that corresponds to our Competency Rating. It’s the worst. The absolute worst. All of the 5’s wear red, 6’s orange, 7’s yellow, 8’s green, 9’s blue, and 10’s purple. It’s like a three-dimensional leaderboard for social standing. It’s degrading, offensive, and just makes everybody not at the top feel worthless. Competency Ratings should be nobody’s business except your own. If you’re alive, you’ve proven you’re competent enough. But no. This government decided it was better to humiliate those on the brink in an attempt to “inspire” them for improvement. As if the daily fear of death isn’t sufficient inspiration. Of course I’d never say any of this aloud but I’m allowed to think it. At least until the Chancellor finds a way to ban that too.

  I also hate yellow. I’ve had two Reviews so far and received a 7 on both so I’ve been wearing yellow once a week for over three and a half years. I’m doubtful I can climb to an 8 so my best bet is probably dropping to a 6. Obviously that’s flying a little too close to the sun for my risk tolerance so I’ve succumbed to my disgust. Dad tried to cheer me up after my second Review by purchasing all these yellow accessories but they just sit in my dresser drawer. I’d rather just wear my plain, boring, yellow sweater every week. There’s no point in dressing it up because I just hate it.

  As I daydream away in Mr. Lewis’s seventh-period History of Okeanos class, I look out the window and see a little runt of a squirrel ransacking a barren tree for food. Poor guy. He’s not gonna find any in there. Or anywhere around here for that matter. There are only a handful of trees in our entire township that still bloom; generally the ones with the deepest roots still capable of accessing whatever moisture is left beneath the surface. I wish I could pack this little guy in my backpack and take him there. As I debate the actual viability of this I’m jolted back to reality by the smashing open of the classroom door. Two Patrolmen bust through and my whole body goes white.

  Patrolmen are the law enforcement arm of the Okeanic government. The best comparison I can come up with is the Gestapo of Nazi Germany. They wear midnight blue uniforms equipped with heavy-duty utility belts, holsters for weaponry, and dark helmets with tinted black visors to go with their shin-level black boots.

  “Stuart Hannigan,” one of them says coldly as he surveys the room. The entire class turns to Stuart who cowers in intimidation. The Patrolman zeroes in on him and says, “We need you to come with us.”

  “What is going on here?” Mr. Lewis asks.

  “Mr. Hannigan is coming with us,” the Patrolman repeats with more resolve to assert his authority.

  “May I see some credentials,” Mr. Lewis requests.

  “No you may not,” the second Patrolman says sternly.

  “Then I demand you tell me what this is about,” Mr. Lewis says.

  “Mr. Hannigan, you are being deported pursuant to Article Nineteen, Section Four, Item Nine of the Okeanic Charter of 2062.”

  The whole class gasps in horror.

  “Deported!” Stuart shrieks. “Why would I be deported?”

  “You were born in Al-Hasakah, Syria,” the Patrolman says.

  “Yeah, on a U.S. base. My father was military. We returned home six months after I was born.”

  “You weren’t born on Okeanic soil so you can no longer remain on Okeanic soil. We’ll drive you to the airport where a Sector Travel Coordinator will be waiting with your plane ticket and an Arabic dictionary.”

  Stuart can barely open his mouth but finally mutters, “Where are my parents and brother?”

  “They’re of no concern to us as they were born in Okeanos.” The class gasps again. My heart skips five beats at once.

  A tear falls down Stuart’s face,” Wait, they’re not coming with me?”

  “They’re welcome to discuss arrangements with the Syrian government. But frankly I’d be surprised if they were admitted entry.”

  Stuart absolutely loses it, “No! I’m not going anywhere. This is crazy!”

  “Mr. Hannigan, you’re going one of two places right now: the airport where a plane will take you to Damascus, Syria or Calvert Square where a noose will await you for failing to cooperate with Okeanic officials.”

  Stuart jumps out of his chair and dashes for the backdoor of the classroom. Before he can reach it, one of the Patrolmen darts over and traps him against the back wall. He tackles Stuart to the ground and slaps cuffs around his restrained wrists. The other Patrolman discharges his metal baton and starts beating Stuart.

  “He’s already down!” Mr. Lewis pleads.

  “This young man was resisting arrest,” the Patrolman says as he strikes Stuart in the back, incapacitating him further.

  “Please stop!” my classmate, Molly, screams. “Stu, just cooperate!”

  The rest of my classmates are either in tears or have their heads covered on their desks by now. The Patrolmen finally lift Stuart and drag him away as he screams for his parents.

  The second they exit I rush out of my seat and sprint to the bathroom. I kick open the stall door and make it to the toilet just in time as I begin vomiting. This place literally makes me sick. The thought of our government sending a teenager to a foreign country—one whose language he doesn’t even speak—by his very self has me rattled to the core. It’s absolutely sickening. Stuart might as well take the noose.

  The final bell rings while I’m freshening up in the bathroom mirror. I assume the news is already making its way around school so I hurry back to collect my backpack and run out to the parking lot where I hope to find Juby.

  Juby is of Indian descent but doesn’t carry the thick accent of her parents having spent her entire life on this side of the Atlantic—or Pacific, not sure which direction is faster. When the Oasis began deporting non-citizens several years ago, her parents forged birth certificates to remain here. Juby shed all of the exquisite Indian jewelry she loved wearing as a child in favor of extremely basic attire that better blended in with her domestic classmates. She figured she’d best avoid bringing any undue attention to her family with Censuses as tight as they’ve been. Despite the wardrobe overhaul, she’s lived in perpetual fear that one day her parents will be discovered and either sent home or executed for lying. Today’s events with Stuart must have her shaken.

  I get to the parking lot and find her sobbing in the driver seat of her car as Zari offers consolation from the passenger side. Juby’s face is buried in her hands. Zari meets eyes with me and signals for help. I jump in the backseat and do my best to alleviate her fears. “Your parents will be just fine, Juby. Truly, they would have already been caught by now. You know the Oasis has already been targeting them given your last name.”

  Juby sniffles and says, “I just worry about them all the time.”

  This poor girl. What a terrible way to live, constantly looking over your shoulder. I change the subject to a lighter tone. “I think I know exactly what would help right now. Let’s grab the guys and head to the park for a little picnic. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll throw the Frisbee, I’ll pick up some snacks on the way. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds like the perfect remedy for the Tuesday blues,” Zari says in her helplessly cheery demeanor. Juby nods as she blows her nose and collects her composure. The three of us hop out and grab Smud, Milo, and Lincoln who seem completely unfazed by the day’s events as they wrestle one another in the courtyard outside of the cafeteria.

  “Come on idiots, we’re going to the park,” Zari says.

  They ask no questions and follow behind, still horse-playing and smacking at each other all the while. We make a quick detour to the barren tree outside class where I unload some of my leftover seeds from lunch for the hungry squirrel. Then we hit the backroad behind school that shaves a couple minutes off the commute to the park. We walk in unison and end up looking like a rainbow because of our Ratings. Zari neglected to mention but she upgraded to a 9 at her Review. Lincoln is an 8. Juby and I are both 7’s. Milo is a 6 and poor Smud is a 5. Granted, if there was ever a good sport about being a 5 it’s Smud.

  “Too much red?” he asks while sizing up his outfit against the reflection of a parked car.

  “You look adorable,” Zari quickly affirms.

  “And no matter what your clothes say, you will always be a 10, Mr. Smuditker,” I tell him. I always try to be a nice person but on Tuesdays I’m a little bit more deliberate, especially with the reds and oranges. Smud doesn’t lead on but there’s no way it doesn’t weigh on him. Truth is there aren’t many 5’s in our school. The heavy majority of students fall in the 6-9 range so the reds tend to stick out like a rose in an Okeanic garden.

  Smud lacks natural athleticism and despite his modest attempts at diet and exercise, it’s just never really been in the cards for him. On the intellectual side, I mean it when I say he’s a genius. That genius has just never translated to school or standardized testing which provides the basis for our Academic scores. The result is a lackluster profile that landed him in today’s cherry blazer fit snugly over his red button down shirt and crimson slacks. Gotta give him credit for going all-in on the color mandate.

  “I thought the blazer added a little flare,” Smud says.

  “I’m not so sure about that, Kool-Aid Man!” a voice from across the street shouts.

  I look over and am hardly shocked to see Mitch Greenwell, Brad Young, and Garrett Turner cracking up in unison. They go to school with us and all come from wealthy families. I’m cynical enough to believe that’s what landed them in the 9-rated blue they’re all clad in. The seeds of old money tend to be viewed upon very favorably by Competency Review Boards. These guys are nothing but arrogant bullies but will always have the backing of their family names to keep them in the Sector’s good graces.

  “I’m more of a grape soda guy but thanks fellas,” Smud says to diffuse the situation.

  “Hey, Smud... if a pack of bulls suddenly come running down the street, do you mind if we stand next to you?” Mitch asks to more laughter from his friends. Lincoln abruptly stops and storms across the street.

  “Let it go, Linc!” I yell.

  He ignores me and gets up in Mitch’s face. “What is it with you guys? You think because you’ve got your fancy blue shirts and Daddy’s water credits that you can walk around humiliating the rest of us? What the hell is your problem?”

  “My problem, Mr. Tough Guy, is that your worthless, fatass friend, Smud, is drinking water I could be washing my car with,” Mitch says. Then he turns to his friends with a laugh and says, “Maybe not for much longer it would appear, though.”

  Without hesitation, Lincoln cocks back and clobbers Mitch in the face, sending him toppling to the ground. A tussle ensues as Garrett and Brad attack Lincoln. Smud and Milo run across the street to help but are deterred when a Patrolman turns the corner four blocks up.

  “Patrolman!” Brad yells and they scatter off.

  Milo and Smud quickly help Lincoln to his feet. “Pussies!” he shouts while wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. The Patrolman turns his attention to us. Instead of pursuing the fleeing instigators he darts in our direction. Panicked, we take off down the street.

  The valve to my adrenaline tank opens to max as we race on. I feel the wind in my face blowing against the sweat beading down my temples. I peek back to see if the Patrolman has gained any ground and instead see Smud falling behind and gasping for breath. With each step, Smud’s sprint is turning into a stumbling jog.

  “Come on, Smud!” I shout.

  Lincoln slows to a stop until he catches up. He throws Smud’s exhausted arm around his shoulder and attempts to pick up his pace with the crutch of Lincoln’s support. We turn at the next junction onto another residential cross street so I slow down to grab Smud’s other shoulder. After a few paces, Smud’s asthma starts kicking in and he really begins to lose it.

  “Just go,” he mutters in exhaustion.

  “Do you have your inhaler?” Lincoln asks. Smud can barely speak so he nods yes. “I’m sorry about this,” Lincoln says as he shoves Smud off the sidewalk down a small hill where he tumbles to the bottom against a wall of shrubs.

  We turn on the jets and catch up to Juby, Zari, and Milo. I look back and see the Patrolman turn onto our block. “Don’t move, Smud. Don’t move,” I repeat to myself in hopes it will have any influence on the outcome. Fortunately he whizzes past the grove where Smud landed. Not so fortunately, he continues his pursuit and appears to be gaining on us. I’m not sure how much longer we can outrun him.

  “We need to split up,” I shout.

  “Just follow me and break off when I tell you guys,” Lincoln says.

  We follow Lincoln out of the community towards a rye farm that lies adjacent to the park. We race towards the fence enclosing the horse stables when Lincoln instructs the rest of us to take cover behind a silo up a small hill to our right. We break off and he continues towards the fence. We dive behind the silo just as Lincoln shouts, “Come get some, jackass!” to the Patrolman who has just come into sight. From our elevated vantage, we can see him follow Lincoln who hops the six-foot fence and then rolls backwards, lying flush against the interior of the fence.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Milo whispers.

  The Patrolman sprints towards the fence and gallops over. Right as he lands, Linc lunges at him from behind and shoves him into a recessed stockpile of composted horse manure. Lincoln immediately re-hurdles the fence and starts booking it back towards the same community from which we came. The Patrolman pulls himself out of the manure pit and begins wiping the filth from his body. He looks up and meets eyes with us so we hightail it back through the community as well.

  After about ten blocks, I realize we’re entering a lower-income township within our Sector but I’ll run into Hell right now if it means shaking this guy. The last thing I need with a Competency Review looming in March is an accessory to assault blip on my resume. My adrenaline tank officially runs out so I peek over my shoulder. The coast appears to be clear so I slow to a jog and the others follow suit. There’s a large gathering at the end of the block so we proceed to the edge and get lost in the crowd. I lean over and drop my hands to my knees to catch some air for my lungs. I grab a quick headcount and browse for our Patrolman. Looks like we lost him so I close my eyes in relief. Then I look at Lincoln who is cracking up laughing.

  “Really?” I ask him.

  “Guess he’s having a pretty shitty day,” he says and laughs some more.

  “Oh, would you grow up. And what were you thinking by the way!” I say and punch him in the arm.

  “Ow,” Lincoln says. “About what?”

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  “Starting a fight with Mitch and those guys. You know who their parents are.”

  “I’m not gonna let them talk to Smud like that.”

  “Uh, guys. Should we be concerned about this?” Juby asks while staring at the crowd in front of us.

  “I know you’re big, bad Lincoln but you can’t do that,” I say. “This is real. In case you forgot, Stuart Hannigan is boarding a plane to the Middle East right now.”

  “Uh, guys,” Juby says again.

  “Rainey, unless we fight back Stuart Hannigan will just be the beginning,” Lincoln says. “In six months we’ll be getting hanged for tardiness and jaywalking.”

  “And you think standing up to a bunch of bullies is going to change that somehow?” I ask.

  “Guys!” Juby yells, finally grabbing our attention.

  We take a minute to soak in our surroundings and realize we’re in the middle of a fiery protest. In all of the chaos, not a single one of us had noticed every person here is garbed in red. The street is littered with residents and there’s an African-American man standing on top of a car at the front of the crowd. He screams into his megaphone, “Our government got no patience for impoverished communities. They think we done bring nothin’ to the table because we ain’t doin’ the type of work they like. Since when are we defined by the size of our economic contributions instead of the size of our hearts?”

  He stomps his foot and the crowd roars in applause. “Look at this place,” he continues. “Some of the best men and women I ever known dressed head-to-toe in red. People that would take a bullet for any one of y’all. Who’s gonna watch their kids when our government decides they ain’t worthy enough to live? Huh? They gonna stick ‘em in one of them big-ass group homes and guess what? By the time they fifteen, the government gon’ kill them too. And why? Because they ain’t smart enough or ain’t strong enough. Ain’t this supposed to be the land of second chances? Some of these cats ain’t even gettin’ they first chance!”

  The cheers get louder and some folks are becoming rowdy. One attendee smashes a car window with his bat.

  “My forty-eighth birthday is next Tuesday,” the man shouts. “I get to celebrate by explaining to three strangers why I lost my job at the landfill yesterday. I’m broke, unemployed, got no dependents, and livin’ in the ghetto. You think for one minute they ain’t killin’ my ass!”

  “We need to get outta here,” I say.

  “I mean, he’s got a point,” Zari replies.

  “Not because I disagree with the merits of his argument. What if a Specter is hiding in the crowd somewhere? It’s not exactly like we blend in seeing as we’re the only people here not in red.”

  “Rainey, try being the hammer instead of the nail for once in your life. I swear you might like it,” Lincoln says.

  “If you’re so intent on staying, go drag Smud out of whatever ditch you threw him in and have him take notes. At least he’s got red on. Look at us. Zari might as well have a bullseye on her back. We need to leave. Like now.”

  Suddenly a Patrol vehicle swerves into the intersection in front of the speaker with lights on and sirens blaring. The crowd disburses like a herd of gazelle to the Patrolman’s lion. We book it in the opposite direction but two more squad cars veer in and blockade the exit. We frantically change directions but another car zooms in sealing that intersection too. I look up to see the speaker getting clubbed by a team of Patrolmen as he violently swings his fists in defense. More Patrolmen exit their vehicles and detain fleeing protesters in every direction. This is a certified raid and they are sealing off the entire perimeter. We’re frozen in the middle as the barricade closes in around us.

  “Where do we go?” Juby screams.

  Lincoln sees a manhole at his feet and tries to pry it open unsuccessfully.

  “We’ve gotta hide,” Milo says.

  The block is lined with decrepit multi-family apartment buildings, maybe three or four stories each. We run into the main entrance of the nearest and start knocking on every apartment door on the first floor. One-by-one we march down the hallway getting turned away by the inhabitants. I can’t blame them. Our clothing makes us highly-covetable targets and there is zero incentive to let us in. We weren’t participating in the protest but that won’t matter to the authorities. We were there. Wrong place, wrong time is no excuse and neither would aiding and abetting if somebody were to let us in.

  Down the hall at the main entrance we hear glass shattering and a team of Patrolmen storm the apartment complex. We book it to the far end of the hallway and enter the stairwell. “All the way up!” Lincoln yells.

  We climb to the fourth floor and burst through to the apartment corridor. Juby is crying and pleads through a door she’s pounding on, “Please let us in.”

  “Let’s just go downstairs and explain to them this is all just a big misunderstanding,” Zari says.

  “Absolutely not!” Lincoln fires back. “They’d make an example out of us. You’re a Goddamn 9 at an anti-government rally.”

  “What do you suggest then?” Zari asks.

  “I don’t know about you guys. But I’m going down swinging.”

  “That’s your answer?” Zari asks. “You’re gonna fight them?”

  “Great call, Linc. That’s how you got us into this mess to begin with,” Milo says.

  “What’re you tryin’ to say, Milo?”

  “I’m saying you done got us killed, bro,” Milo responds not backing down an inch as they square up.

  “Nobody talks to my friends like that! I don’t care what the repercussions are!” Lincoln barks back.

  “Do you care now?” Milo shouts while pointing at Juby who is bawling in tears.

  They’re face-to-face in the middle of the hallway so Zari yells, “Would you guys stop! Focus and think this through.”

  Their tempers are still flaring but they back away from one another.

  “The roof!” Milo yells. “Where’s the roof?”

  We sprint to the door at the far end of the hallway. I grab the handle and pull but it’s locked. Lincoln violently kicks but it won’t budge an inch. Milo drives his shoulder into it but still nothing. We hear footsteps stampeding up the far stairwell.

  “This is it, guys,” Zari concedes as she comes to tears as well. “Don’t fight back. Maybe they’ll show us mercy.”

  “This place has no mercy,” Lincoln says.

  Just as we get ready to drop to a knee in surrender, the apartment door in front of us jolts open and an elderly Black woman in a red cardigan says, “Quick, get in.”

  We hustle inside just as the staircase door busts open. The woman gingerly closes her door to avoid detection. The apartment is a modest space with a small kitchenette directly inside. There’s a tiny family room past the kitchen that outlets into two small bedrooms on either side. It’s a really cozy abode. Everything is clean and orderly. The scent of a jasmine candle offers an inviting aroma. There’s a really comfortable vibe to this place. A young girl, maybe six or seven years old, sits on the family room couch. I imagine she’s gotta be the woman’s granddaughter. She’s wearing a gray sweatshirt, the color customary to anybody under the age of fifteen on Tuesdays.

  The woman quickly but quietly ushers us into the bedroom on the far side. She opens the closet door and says, “Hide in here and don’t make a sound until I come back.” We obey her command and funnel in. It’s not a large closet by any means so we really have to squish together to fit. Once we finally cram in, she closes the door and shuts off the light. We sit ghostly silent. The only noise that can be heard is the uncontrollable pace of our breathing as we all try to get our nerves in check and calm down. I have goosebumps but can feel my skin perspiring at the same time. My heart is beating so fast I fear the palpitations can be heard aloud.

  We sit in total silence for ten minutes and feel the slightest optimism that the threat has passed. But suddenly a loud knock echoes from the front door and I nearly go into cardiac arrest. I involuntarily clench Lincoln and Zari’s arms with all the might I have. Oh my God, I think to myself. They saw us come in. We’re finished.

  The woman opens the door and politely greets the Patrolman on the other side. “Hello, sir,” I can hear her say faintly through the closed closet door. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” he says in a deep, commanding voice. “We’re looking for a group of kids who participated in the rally on your block earlier. Have you seen them?”

  “No, I haven’t seen any kids,” she says.

  “They were described as higher-rated citizens, mostly yellows, greens, and blues.”

  Great. Some bystander has already sold us out in return for clemency, I think to myself.

  “No, nothing,” our woman responds.

  “Witnesses said they were spotted running into this apartment complex. Are you sure you haven’t seen them, ma’am?”

  “I’m sure,” she says. It’s quiet for a moment.

  “Do you mind if I enter the apartment?” the Patrolman asks.

  “Why?”

  “Frankly because I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Come on in. Can I get you some coffee?”

  He ignores her and I hear his footsteps enter the apartment. I have to cover my mouth from squealing in fear.

  “That’s some heavy gear. Don’t you get hot wearing all that stuff?” the woman asks.

  “Ma’am, where are they?” he scoffs, ignoring her small talk.

  “I told you, sir. I haven’t seen anybody. My granddaughter and I have been in here all day.”

  “If you give them up now, I’ve been deputized to offer you an intermittent Competency Review to upgrade your Rating.”

  “I wish I could help. I just don’t have any information to give you,” she says.

  “We could move you outside of this township’s property lines,” the Patrolman says. “With your cooperation, you’d be looking at a 6 and maybe even a 7.”

  Oh no. This is an elderly woman with a granddaughter to take care of. We’re total strangers. This is like hitting the lottery. She’d be a fool not to take this deal. I close my eyes and wait for her to escort him in to reveal our hiding spot.

  “I like it here,” she says instead. “And I think you’ve worn out your welcome. I have to ask you to leave.”

  Are you kidding me? What a saint this woman is! A feeling of relief washes over but it’s short-lived as the Patrolman says, “Not until I search the home.”

  I hear the bedroom door on the opposite side of the family room open as he combs the apartment.

  “You have no right to do this!” the woman yells.

  “I’m a Patrolman for the Sector Eighteen Command District. I have whatever rights I want,” he replies while rummaging through the other bedroom. Then his footsteps get louder and the door to our bedroom squeaks open. I hold my breath so as not to make a sound.

  “Sir, I have to insist. You’re scaring my granddaughter and I need you to leave.” He ignores her and flips the bed over to reveal underneath. It’s a small room and the only place left to search is the closet. His footsteps creep toward us. His hand grabs the closet door handle. I close my eyes and accept that this is it. It starts to turn but suddenly a voice from outside in the hallway yells, “We’ve got a runner!”

  The handle stops turning and the Patrolman’s footsteps start running in the other direction. We hold completely still for ten minutes. Then the handle on the closet door turns again. I lean back and brace for the Patrolman but to my ultimate relief, it’s our savior, the elderly woman.

  “Coast is clear,” she says. “But you’re gonna want to lie low here for a little while. Until we know they’re gone.”

  I let out a deep exhale in relief. I live a pretty mundane life and this is undoubtedly the closest encounter I’ve ever had with the authorities. We pile out of the closet and thank the woman profusely.

  “You saved our lives, ma’am,” Zari says.

  “It’s nothin’ y’all. I’m sure you would’ve done the same for me.”

  I’m not so sure about that, I think to myself. I’d love to believe I’d be the hero she was but part of me knows I would’ve been hiding in a closet the second I sensed danger. Complicit or not, I don’t like confrontation and would’ve pretended I wasn’t home.

  The woman invites us into the family room and prepares hot coffee for everybody.

  “So what happened?” Lincoln asks.

  “One of the other protesters was hiding in an apartment down the hall. He took off and all the Patrolmen on the floor chased after him. They beat him down in the street and dragged him off.”

  “Imagine the chances of that,” Zari says rhetorically. “I’m Zari by the way.”

  “Patrice,” she replies. “That’s my granddaughter, Khadija, in the bedroom.”

  We introduce ourselves back. Then I ask, “Why didn’t you take his offer?” rather pointedly I must admit. I’m just having a difficult time grasping her level of generosity. It’s like I’ve become so jaded I can’t trust even the most sincere intentions in people.

  “Because we gotta look out for one another. How can I sleep at night knowing I benefitted from y’alls loss?” she asks.

  “We knocked on fifty doors,” Lincoln says. “And you’re the only one who let us in.”

  “You seem like a nice group. I’m glad I did.”

  “Does Khadija live here with you?” Juby asks."

  “She does. Both of her parents were casualties of Restoration.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t apologize yet. It’s what’s next I’m most worried about.”

  “What’s next?” I ask.

  “I had my check-up a couple months ago. Turns out I got cancer of the pancreas and it’s doing its work quickly. My doc says I won’t last six months.”

  “Oh my God. I am so sorry,” Zari says.

  “You know what the funny thing is?” Patrice asks. “I don’t even mind. My only prayer is my cancer takes me before my next Competency Review does. I want to go out on God’s terms, not Deacon Harlow’s.”

  “Isn’t the doctor required to furnish your medical results to the Competency Review Board?” Juby asks.

  “He is. But he won’t. He’s one of my oldest friends. I didn’t even have to ask.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “All we got left in this world is each other. If we can’t band together now it’s only gonna get worse.”

  “Amen!” Lincoln shouts.

  “What will happen to Khadija?” I ask.

  Patrice is quiet for a moment. She swallows hard and says, “She’ll be put in a home.”

  This just crushes me. This poor family.

  “It’s not right,” Lincoln says shaking his head. “It’s not right!” he repeats and pounds the table next to him with his fist.

  “The government abandoned impoverished communities like ours a long time ago,” Patrice says. “We needed their help and instead they insisted on ours. They know damn well we can’t offer it so they’re wiping us out left and right.”

  I live twenty minutes from this community but never realized how different things are on this side of town. My father and I are more ‘income-challenged’ than poor; surely a far cry from this and all of the stigmas attached to living here. I mean, this woman is kind, loving, a provider, polite... she could fit in anywhere. But she’s an immediate target of the government because of her street address. I never considered the socio-economic ramifications behind Restoration but they’re undeniable. Lincoln’s right... this just isn’t right.

  “Please let us know if there’s anything at all we can do to help,” Zari says. “Here’s my phone number.” Zari scribbles down her number on the notepad atop the coffee table.

  “Y’all are too sweet,” Patrice responds. “We’ll be okay. Khadija is tough and she’ll be alright. Rise above. That’s what I keep telling her. But, listen, I think it’s probably clear for y’all to get home. They’ll be lookin’ for colors so I want y’all to wear these home,” she says while grabbing red clothing garments from her hallway closet. “They belonged to my son and Khadija’s mother. Hope they fit okay.”

  “They’re perfect,” I say. “Best of luck with everything and please do let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.”

  “I sure will. Get home safe now.”

  With that, we peek out the front door and begin our walk home in freedom thanks exclusively to the woman who was brave enough to open the door.