dinner.
Fostino Sanchez stood in the middle of the alley against the brick wall of the back of the store. He propped one shiny boot up against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. The medals of his Homeland Guard uniform seemed more pronounced.
“Hello.”
“Hi.” I leaned against the brick wall next to him and rubbed my left arm. It hurt from all the work and I winced a little.
“You okay?” He reached out and rubbed my left arm.
“No. It has just been hard for me these days. And I think I strained my arm from all the sewing.”
Fostino grimaced.
Oh, he looked so beautiful even when he did that.
“God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Are you okay, otherwise? Getting used to the schedule?”
I shrugged. He rubbed my arm some more. The massage intoxicated me and sent a tingle of electricity through my body.
“They make me work the top floor of the factory,” he supplied, even though I didn’t ask. “Patrolling. My dad works on that floor too. At night, after the shift, I replace the fabrics on the floor. And we drill every morning.”
“What about the store?” I gestured to the brick wall.
“My parents only keep it open four hours a day anymore,” he said dismissively. “Not a lot of business since The Party switched us from money to stamps last month. Plus, supplies— well, Party members and The Party get most of the stuff, anyway.”
Oh, right. They told us at the factory we would get only one hundred stamps a month for food and supplies. Money didn’t work anymore — anywhere.
“The government always seems to be changing things,” I muttered. “When they told us about the stamps at work, it seemed so sudden.”
“Yeah, that did seem weird, but I don’t want to think about that right now,” Fostino’s eyes narrowed and his face sharpened in the dim light. Then he shook his head. “Listen. How long will you keep on living on the outskirts of town?” he whispered.
I hadn’t thought about it until that moment. “I don’t know,” I replied, my voice also low. I knew we could not be sure who could or would hear us. Fostino stepped closer to me. His boots knocked against my flat shoes, his breath filled the air between us.
“I don’t think you should stay there,” he cautioned through clenched teeth. “It’s not a good idea.”
“What? Why? That’s my house,” I replied. I raised an eyebrow. “It’s all I own.” I took a step back.
“I know,” he said. He closed the space between us. “But it just seems like you’re tired all the time from work. I hate thinking about you walking all the way out here just to get home after a long day.” He paused. “And there’s something else. I overheard some information the other day during shift change.” He sighed. “A couple of Party members talked about some roundups they’re going to do soon. And they want to start with the outskirts of town.”
“What?” I whispered, even though I wanted to shout at him. “What the hell? Roundups?” I threw up my hands. “What does that mean? Is this going to be like when they killed my mother and everyone else?” I glared at him.
He nodded yes, and my mouth dropped open.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, unable to process the words. I closed my eyes for a brief second as a headache started to pound in my ears. “And why should I listen to you anyway? You didn’t talk to me for days. Why tell me this now?”
“I know, I thought about that, but it’s all true. They mentioned it at drill.” Fostino’s jaw tightened. “I just—I tried to tell you. I did. I came to the house one night a few days ago while out on patrol, but I couldn’t stop to see you because I had other people with me.” He put his left hand on his forehead and I heard his exasperation. “Charlotte, you don’t know what’s going to…”
I cut off his words and tried to focus. “Roundups? Really? This makes me sick!”
“It’s necessary,” he replied. Fostino’s left hand
Fostino Sanchez stood in the middle of the alley against the brick wall of the back of the store. He propped one shiny boot up against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. The medals of his Homeland Guard uniform seemed more pronounced.
“Hello.”
“Hi.” I leaned against the brick wall next to him and rubbed my left arm. It hurt from all the work and I winced a little.
“You okay?” He reached out and rubbed my left arm.
“No. It has just been hard for me these days. And I think I strained my arm from all the sewing.”
Fostino grimaced.
Oh, he looked so beautiful even when he did that.
“God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Are you okay, otherwise? Getting used to the schedule?”
I shrugged. He rubbed my arm some more. The massage intoxicated me and sent a tingle of electricity through my body.
“They make me work the top floor of the factory,” he supplied, even though I didn’t ask. “Patrolling. My dad works on that floor too. At night, after the shift, I replace the fabrics on the floor. And we drill every morning.”
“What about the store?” I gestured to the brick wall.
“My parents only keep it open four hours a day anymore,” he said dismissively. “Not a lot of business since The Party switched us from money to stamps last month. Plus, supplies— well, Party members and The Party get most of the stuff, anyway.”
Oh, right. They told us at the factory we would get only one hundred stamps a month for food and supplies. Money didn’t work anymore — anywhere.
“The government always seems to be changing things,” I muttered. “When they told us about the stamps at work, it seemed so sudden.”
“Yeah, that did seem weird, but I don’t want to think about that right now,” Fostino’s eyes narrowed and his face sharpened in the dim light. Then he shook his head. “Listen. How long will you keep on living on the outskirts of town?” he whispered.
I hadn’t thought about it until that moment. “I don’t know,” I replied, my voice also low. I knew we could not be sure who could or would hear us. Fostino stepped closer to me. His boots knocked against my flat shoes, his breath filled the air between us.
“I don’t think you should stay there,” he cautioned through clenched teeth. “It’s not a good idea.”
“What? Why? That’s my house,” I replied. I raised an eyebrow. “It’s all I own.” I took a step back.
“I know,” he said. He closed the space between us. “But it just seems like you’re tired all the time from work. I hate thinking about you walking all the way out here just to get home after a long day.” He paused. “And there’s something else. I overheard some information the other day during shift change.” He sighed. “A couple of Party members talked about some roundups they’re going to do soon. And they want to start with the outskirts of town.”
“What?” I whispered, even though I wanted to shout at him. “What the hell? Roundups?” I threw up my hands. “What does that mean? Is this going to be like when they killed my mother and everyone else?” I glared at him.
He nodded yes, and my mouth dropped open.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, unable to process the words. I closed my eyes for a brief second as a headache started to pound in my ears. “And why should I listen to you anyway? You didn’t talk to me for days. Why tell me this now?”
“I know, I thought about that, but it’s all true. They mentioned it at drill.” Fostino’s jaw tightened. “I just—I tried to tell you. I did. I came to the house one night a few days ago while out on patrol, but I couldn’t stop to see you because I had other people with me.” He put his left hand on his forehead and I heard his exasperation. “Charlotte, you don’t know what’s going to…”
I cut off his words and tried to focus. “Roundups? Really? This makes me sick!”
“It’s necessary,” he replied. Fostino’s left hand
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