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forget
it’s there.  Then sometimes, the endless needling sensation works its way
into my consciousness.  I become aware of every muscle in my body, tense
with agitation.  It’s the kind of pain that drives people crazy-- not from
its intensity, but from its constant, incessant jabbing.  Grinding my teeth,
I try to think of something else-- anything else.  A way to keep some of
the money I will make.  The possibility of food.  But I can focus on
nothing other than the pain. 
    Then I hear it, and I stop walking.  I stop, before I even
know what I’m doing.  The pain in my foot is nothing.  My hunger is a
distant unpleasantness.  There’s nothing in my world but this sound
pulling at me like a current dragging me under water. 
    "Roses and lilies, roses and lilies!"  There are
two of them-- old women peddling flowers, crying out in this off-key sing-song.
 "Roses and lilies," they cry over and over. 
    I am frozen.  I will my heart to start beating again, tell
myself to start moving.  But I stand there and look at them as they wander
across the market place singing their pitch.  I’m incapacitated, but I
can’t say why.  Only that there is something so horribly familiar in their
song.  My insides feel like they’ve been whisked into a froth.  I try
to calm myself, try to breathe.  I start counting backward.  After
two beats I forget to count.  My mind races with questions.  A
chilling certainty creeps into me.  This has something to do with who I
am.  Who I was.  I’m suddenly desperate to know.  But the Tenth
Law of the Covenant states that it is forbidden for an erasee to make
any attempt to discover their previous identity.  If I did this-- if I was
caught doing this-- it would mean death.  Was I a flower peddler in my
previous life?  Bitterly, I force the question away.  It is
impossible, I reason with myself.  I could not retain self-knowledge or
memories.  This has nothing to do with me.  It's something
else.  Flowers.  Who buys flowers, anyway, when they could buy
food?  There is no place for such things in this world.  Flowers are
for the dead. 
    I make my way to the recycler.  He sees me coming, but my
victory from this morning continues.  He only makes a face of
disbelief.  He upends the contents of my bags, and flings a handful of
coins at me.  I rush to pick them out of the dirt, and beat a hasty
retreat toward the cake-seller, determined to eat before everything can be
taken from me.  I mentally tally my profits and consider their unstolen
potential.  I need food, but I also need to do something about my
foot.  I’m sure now that the wound has become infected.  There’s a
woman farther down from the cake-seller, who peddles herbal medicines and
teas.  I think I can probably just afford to buy a poultice for my foot
and a cake for my stomach, and have two coins left over to pay off that
blackmailing hag.  Surely two coins will be enough to forestall her wrath
for another day. 
    Conjured by the thought, she appears about ten yards in front of
me.  My stomach turns at the sight of her, but I change my course into the
mouth of a nearby alley where I can give her the coins privately.  I know
that if people see us talking they’ll be suspicious.  No one talks to the
poxy.  So I retreat deep into the alley until the people in the
marketplace disappear from my view.  A moment later she follows after
me. 
    Infuriatingly, she knows exactly how much I earned today, and she
demands all but one coin, which she sees as a generous gift.  Resist as I
may, in the end she snaps, "Do you know how much Matthew would give
me for you?  Do you know how long you’ll have to pay me
coin-by-coin to make that up?  I'm showing you a great kindness, girl, and
you don't appear to be thankful at all."
    I thrust the fistful of coins at her, restraining a punch.  I
force my fingers to open one by one and drop the coins into her greedy,
wrinkled palm.  I swallow down bile and