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There's a
reason they are kept when others are not.  Value.  Reasoning it
through, tithing to one of the groups is risky business.  Most likely, the
sheep happily sacrifice the best of their flock to the wolf... for a profit, of
course.  My hope deflates.  I don't know much about myself.  I’m
made weak from hunger.  Erasure will have deleted any skills I may have
had.  But I’m pretty.  And beyond that, there’s something else I am
certain of:  I have value.  There will be no safety in one of those
groups for me.
    For the rest of the day, I scan the streets and listen to
conversations.  It seems there is a sprinkling of people who are not slaves,
not group members, but who still manage to make a living.  They’re
well-off, as far as the Outpost is concerned.  They’re clearly eating
regularly.  They sleep indoors, and are dressed in warm clothing with few
holes.  They own things.  They are merchants, or businessmen. 
Or employed by Matthew.  I’m beginning to think this is the entire scope
of life within the walls of the Outpost, when I notice two young men walking
along the broken sidewalk.  At first, I think they're more of Matthew's,
but they’re not.  I realize this because they pass three men who I’ve
already identified as Matthew’s thugs.  As they pass, there’s no greeting
or acknowledgement, just a brief meeting of eyes.  All five faces are
blank.  No one displays aggression, but there is something in it all--
something of a challenge.  The two continue on into Canson's corner
grocery store.  One of Matthew's men glances warily after them, but
Matthew's group keeps moving, too.  As for me, I scramble into position to
find out more.
    I'm fishing a tin can lid out of a gutter on the opposite corner
when the two men finally come out, one of them carrying a cloth sack with
something lumpy weighting the bottom.  This one wears a dark blue knit cap
pulled down to his eyebrows.  From under it spills shoulder-length golden
hair, thick and wavy.  He's handsome, with a strong jaw, straight nose,
and broad shoulders.  Classic good looks.  He could be a sun
god.  He's dressed in black pocketed pants and a military-style jacket
over a tee shirt.  His clothes are not particularly dirty or torn. 
Neither are his companion's. 
    The other one is wearing a zip-up hoodie, with the hood drawn up
over his head.  They turn away from me quickly, so all I really see of his
face is olive skin and a cap of dark, wavy hair.  I'm oddly disappointed
to miss out on the rest.  As they walk away, I note his lean, muscular
build.  His movement is fluid and feline, full of masculine grace.  I
can't stop watching him.  I have to force my mind back to its analytical
side.  I consider the way that they walk, and the way that people move
around them.  These two are definitely dangerous.  How do they fit
into the scheme of things?  I follow them.  
    I keep at least half a block between us at all times.  People
continue to make way for them, water parting around boulders.  They stroll
leisurely down the main street of the Outpost.  They don't stop to talk
with anyone.  For that matter, they don't even seem to be talking between
themselves.  They just head down the street like they know exactly where
they are going, sharp and alert, but with a sort of nonchalance.  The one
wearing the hoodie glances back over his shoulder.  I keep my head tucked,
keep hobbling like it has nothing to do with me.  But when they turn onto
a quieter street, I know I cannot follow them-- not without revealing
myself.  So I continue until I find an alleyway vacant enough that I dare
snatch a few bits of trash before moving on.
    When I head toward the market square with three full bags to sell,
the late afternoon sun just touches the top of the concrete wall on the west
side of the Outpost.  I’m hobbling along, trying to ignore the persistent
pain of the wound in my foot, trying to will it away.  Sometimes, I