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fight a war against the rebels who will not acquiesce to this new regime. The Reestablishment is struggling to root itself as a new form of government across all international societies.
    And then I wonder what has happened to the people I used to see every day. What’s become of their homes, their parents, their children. I wonder how many of them have been buried in the ground.
    How many of them were murdered.
    “They’re destroying everything,” Adam says, and his voice is suddenly a solemn sound in the silence. “All the books, every artifact, every remnant of human history. They’re saying it’s the only way to fix things. They say we need to start fresh. They say we can’t make the same mistakes of previous generations.”
    2
    knocks
    at the door and we’re both on our feet, abruptly startled back into this bleak world.
    Adam raises an eyebrow at me. “Breakfast?”
    “Wait three minutes,” I remind him. We’re so good at masking our hunger until the knocks at the door cripple our dignity.
    They starve us on purpose.
    “Yeah.” His lips are set in a soft smile. “I wouldn’t want to burn myself.” The air shifts as he steps forward.
    I am a statue.
    “I still don’t understand,” he says, so quietly. “Why are you here?”
    “Why do you ask so many questions?”
    He leaves less than a foot of space between us and I’m 10 inches away from spontaneous combustion. “Your eyes are so deep.” He tilts his head. “So calm. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
    “You shouldn’t.” My voice falters. “You don’t even know me.”
    He laughs and the action gives life to the light in his eyes. “I don’t know you.”
    “No.”
    He shakes his head. Sits on his bed. “Right. Of course not.”
    “What?”
    “You’re right.” His breath catches. “Maybe I am insane.”
    I take 2 steps backward. “Maybe you are.”
    He’s smiling again and I’d like to take a picture. I’d like to stare at the curve of his lips for the rest of my life. “I’m not, you know.”
    “But you won’t tell me why you’re here,” I challenge.
    “And neither will you.”
    I fall to my knees and tug the tray through the slot. Something unidentifiable is steaming in 2 tin cups. Adam folds himself onto the floor across from me.
    “Breakfast,” I say as I push his portion forward.

Chapter Six
    1 word, 2 lips, 3 4 5 fingers form 1 fist.
    1 corner, 2 parents, 3 4 5 reasons to hide.
    1 child, 2 eyes, 3 4 17 years of fear.
    A broken broomstick, a pair of wild faces, angry whispers, locks on my door.
    Look at me, is what I wanted to say to you. Talk to me every once in a while. Find me a cure for these tears, I’d really like to exhale for the first time in my life.
    It’s been 2 weeks.
    2 weeks of the same routine, 2 weeks of nothing but routine. 2 weeks with the cellmate who has come too close to touching me who does not touch me. Adam is adapting to the system. He never complains, he never volunteers too much information, he continues to ask too many questions.
    He’s nice to me.
    I sit by the window and watch the rain and the leaves and the snow collide. They take turns dancing in the wind, performing choreographed routines for unsuspecting masses. The soldiers stomp stomp stomp through the rain, crushing leaves and fallen snow under their feet. Their hands are wrapped in gloves wrapped around guns that could put a bullet through a million possibilities. They don’t bother to be bothered by the beauty that falls from the sky. They don’t understand the freedom in feeling the universe on their skin. They don’t care.
    I wish I could stuff my mouth full of raindrops and fill my pockets full of snow. I wish I could trace the veins in a fallen leaf and feel the wind pinch my nose.
    Instead, I ignore the desperation sticking my fingers together and watch for the bird I’ve only seen in my dreams. Birds used to fly, is what the stories say. Before the ozone layer deteriorated, before the pollutants mutated