Tiny Tin House

By L Maristatter

In the Christian States of America, a woman's place is with a man. No exceptions.

Although she's legally an adult, eighteen-year-old Meryn Flint must live at home until her stepfather, Ray, finds her a husband. That's the law.

But when Ray kills her mother and Meryn must flee for her own safety, she quickly di

• Language: English
• Publisher: NiffyCat Press
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986631127

Book preview

1. Gone

The Guardian Angel told me Mom was dead in the same tone of voice he’d use to tell kids on the sub to stop climbing over the seats and sit down.

And I sat—rational thought impossible, legs turned to jelly, I collapsed on the worn chintz sofa, hard.

The news drove the breath out of me. I experienced a split second of terror—that, to my shame, drove thoughts of Mom straight out of my head—wondering if I would ever breathe again. Still, I found it poetically appropriate that Mom and I would go out almost at the same time, close as we were. Stars swam in my vision and gray encroached, and I’d almost yielded to the idea of dying when air flowed into my lungs.

The breath came as though my will had nothing to say about it, and I suppose that’s true. I gasped a bit in protest, but yes, it was a breath, and the stars cleared and the gray retreated. My fingers curled into my palms, nails cutting skin. The breath meant I would live, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I wanted to scream until the men went away. Scream until my vocal cords shattered the walls of our shabby little apartment and everyone left me alone with Mom.

The following exhale came with a quiet little noise—an almost doglike whine—and the Guard looked at me sharply. At his expression, I slammed my mouth shut, the knife edge of my fear severing the sound. Grief didn’t mean I could break the law.

Standing in the dining room with the other Guard, my stepfather whirled to face the sunflower-patterned wall, his head down.

The wallpaper had been Mom’s idea. It’ll bring the outside in, she’d said, standing on a stepladder in the dining room, her red hair tied up in a kerchief, smiling as she smoothed the paper into place. And aren’t sunflowers cheerful? Won’t it be fun to wake up and see their happy faces every morning at breakfast?

The Guard put his hand on Ray’s shoulder in a gesture of condolence.

Condolence. Livid bile rose in my throat. I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt like a patch of sand.

The Guard standing in front of me did not try to touch me and I was glad. Miss Esselin, he said. I will need your statement. Come with me.

Flint. It came out a bare whisper.

What?

I cleared my throat. Flint. Better. My name is Flint, not Esselin.

To my surprise, he didn’t react—just motioned toward the door. Let’s step outside.

Seizing my jacket, I followed him out of the apartment and down the walkway with its chipped black metal railing, rust pooling under each spindle. He kept moving until we were out of earshot of those inside the apartment. Not that it mattered: gossip was rife in our community, and even though not a soul was in sight, I knew someone would overhear what we said and bring it back to Ray. A frigid wind from off the bay swept around the buildings and scissored through me, but I didn’t feel it. I was frozen inside.

Guardian Angels—the Reformation Directorate’s guardians and law enforcers—wore white to symbolize the purity of their mission. When I was a little girl, I used to wonder who washed their uniforms and how much bleach they used. When I asked Mom, she laughed.

He turned to me. May I?

It seemed an odd courtesy—a Guardian Angel could read my chip without my knowledge or consent—but I nodded and held out my right arm. As his implant accessed my data, he blinked rapidly, like a woman swooning. I wasn’t even tempted to laugh.

A Guard’s brain implant was mandatory because it couldn’t be hacked, altered, or removed. I thought it was a major downside of the job. Not that I could ever be a Guard, anyway, since I was a girl. Another drawback was that most people—at least, people I knew—feared and hated the Guards. Only Governance and Exalted Castes called them Guardian Angels, or Angels. To the rest of us, they were just Guards.

It always bugged me that any Guard could know who I was and where I lived or worked just by looking at me on the sub. I told myself that if I was careful to follow the law, I had no reason to be afraid.

At this moment, however, I was grateful for the invasive technology; I wouldn’t have to endure more questions when all I wanted to do was scream.

No screaming, Meryn. I bit my tongue, hard.

Worker Caste. Flint, Maryan Athena, he murmured, reading aloud.

It’s pronounced MARE-in, sir. My correction was polite, automatic.

He went on without acknowledging. Age: eighteen. Height: five feet, nine inches. Weight: 130. Hair: brown, curly. Eyes: gray. Skin tone: 3.5. His eyebrows went up. You work at On the Mark?

I nodded.

How long have you been employed there? He knew that, too. I figured he was testing my honesty. Why would I lie? Do people actually lie to the Guards?

About seven months. They hired me April fourth.

That’s at the mall, right? His eyes quivered slightly, unfocused. That meant he was still accessing data from the Guard network.

We have several locations, but yeah, my store is across from the Silvermine Mall. I swallowed.

Now his eyes met mine. Okay. What happened here?

Um . . . I looked at the pavement, wondering what would happen if I told the Guard I couldn’t remember. What if I get a detail wrong?

An hour earlier, I’d been getting ready for work: the closing shift, noon to eight. Mom and Ray were celebrating their anniversary, and Ray had sprung for pork chops—real pork chops!—for their dinner, to be followed by a romantic afternoon together.

I’d eaten a fried eggplant sandwich, Mom whispering that she would save part of her pork chop for me. She was generous that way, even though I knew Ray would finish it off before it ever got to the fridge.

While Mom cooked dinner in the kitchen, I sat on my bed, her sewing kit open next to me, trying to reattach a button on my work uniform. She came down the hall just as I cursed under my breath.

Oh, honey, there’s a trick to this type of button. Let me show you. She settled next to me, taking the repair out of my hands.

As Mom worked, I’d studied her face. Unlike many women who looked worn and sad at thirty-six, she was still youthful, beautiful. Her parents, my Gamma and Gampa Flint, had been well off, so Mom was GM—a Genetically Modified baby. Gamma had requested Mom’s curly red hair, porcelain skin, and eyes as green as the sea on a summer morning. Mom also had a slender frame—the unkind would call her frail. Her natural grace still drew admiring glances from men on the bus.

Most people who could afford tinkering engineered a boy, although the mid-level castes—Management, especially—tried to craft girls who would appeal to high-caste families as potential mates. The rest of us were known as NMOs—Non-Modified Organisms. It wasn’t unheard of for an NMO girl to marry up, but it was rare.

Mom never told me her birth caste. We’re with Ray. Nothing else matters now, she always said, her lips compressed in a firm line that told me the subject was closed. I’d never had the courage to ask her about my dad’s caste.

I looked at her, bent over that button, a thoughtful hmmm coming from her throat as she checked the position of button and buttonhole. I could ask . . . No. She’s busy. I bit my lip.

Me, I was NMO. Mom called me homegrown, with her musical laugh. Engaged at seventeen and suffering the kind of overwhelming love that shuts off a girl’s brain, she had yielded to her fiancé’s demands and slept with him before the wedding. I came along nine months later. I’d never known my dad—didn’t even know his name. He broke their engagement when he discovered she was pregnant, just before she went into hiding in her mother’s parents’ basement. No unmarried woman in our society dared go out visibly pregnant; the Guards were always watching, always hoping to make their quota. She told me my father died soon after I was born. I didn’t know if that was true.

You’ll want to make the loops larger. Mom’s voice was soft, her head still bent over her work. If they’re too tight, the button seats itself in the fabric and it won’t go through the hole. So you leave a little slack. Her eyes darted a glance at me, smiled. Kind of like life.

When I’d reached sixteen, I reached her height. Standing next to her, I looked like her sister—same curly hair, but brown. Same heart-shaped face, but light brown skin, not white. And my frame is tougher and hippy, not birdlike and slim. You’ll be better off, she’d told me when I remarked on the differences. Your babies will come easier. Mom had almost died delivering me, despite the GM tinkering; somehow Gamma Flint got the bleeding stopped. The hospital could have been a death sentence for her. Sometimes good intentions backfire.

Mom rose and held up the blouse with a muted cry of triumph. There! Let’s try it.

I shrugged into the lace-trimmed orange top and buttoned it. The repair worked perfectly, and I hugged Mom, blowing out a sigh. It was driving me nuts.

Mom smiled in her gentle way. There’s just a trick to it.

Rose! Ray’s bellow echoed down the hall. Why aren’t you at the stove?

Her face changed—the sea before a storm—and her breath sucked in. The pork chops. Her arms dropped and she bolted to the kitchen.

I wasn’t worried. Mom was known throughout our apartment complex for her mouthwatering cooking, and she hadn’t been away from the stove for more than a minute or two. Slipping my blue Caste Ring on my left index finger, I waited a beat for it to shrink to the correct size, then picked up the eyeshadow palette.

Ray’s voice came again. Why the heck weren’t you paying attention? His words slurred—he’d started celebrating early with his favorite bootleg beer.

Mom’s response wasn’t audible. She always tried to defuse his anger by speaking softly, as the Bible put it.

No, they’re not! I work my butt off to bring you real pork chops, and you can’t even stay in the kitchen? A loud clang—Ray must have thrown something. A gasp. Angry whispers, then footsteps. Mom and Ray often went into their bedroom to argue, as if by closing the door they could keep me from knowing about it.

I held my breath and turned away from my open bedroom door. Lately their arguments had become more frequent. I knew better than to get involved.

The bedroom door slammed, muffling the words, but Ray’s voice grew louder. A moment later, Mom cried out. I whirled away from the mirror, eyes wide; before I could take a step, a terrible, hollow THUD rocked the apartment. Then silence—an odd silence that balled in the pit of my stomach and made it hard to breathe.

The bedroom door opened. Uneven steps, meandering down the hall to the living room. The psssht of a bottle opening.

Mom? Wary, I poked my head into the hallway. Silence. I slipped down the hall and peeked into Mom and Ray’s room. Mom!

She lay on the floor, her face obscured by a curtain of red curls. At my voice, she tried to rise, but her body flopped, a broken marionette.

I darted into the room and lifted her onto the sagging bed, cushioning her head with the pillow. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes struggling to focus.

Mom? Fear knotted my midsection. Mama? I hadn’t called her that since I was six. I smoothed curls away from her face, and my breath sucked in—a reddish, dusky bruise marched across her left temple, and blood seeped from a cut on her scalp. Ray! I shrieked, running down the hall. Call emergency—Mom’s badly hurt!

Huh? Ray looked up from his easy chair. Nah, Meryn, she’s fine. Stupid witch. He belched, turning back to the football game on the house screen. She burned the pork chops.

I grabbed his cell phone from the table and shoved it in his face, too panicked to be tactful. "You call the medAngels now, you worthless drunk!" I hissed. I couldn’t do it myself; I was low caste and female. They’d just hang up.

Ray’s face distorted with fury. I had never spoken to my stepfather that way. Not waiting for his reprimand, I dashed back to the bedroom.

Mom? As I eased down next to her, I heard Ray on the phone in the living room. He was indeed calling the medAngels, but I didn’t relax. Who knew when they would come—the Governance and Exalted Castes had their own first responders, but the rest of us shared just a few stations. And Worker Caste neighborhoods were low on the priority list.

Meryn. Mom’s voice was distant. ’s okay, sweetie. I’m okay. A long trail of cooking oil marred the front of her dress, and her right forearm displayed a vivid streak of burn. Her eyes opened and immediately screwed shut, as if seeing was more than she could handle. The white of her left eye was occluded by a fierce red that took my breath away.

Of course you are, I said, struggling against panic. The medAngels are coming, Mom. Just rest. They’ll be here in a minute, okay? Tears pricked my eyes, and I held one of her hands in both of mine. The bones felt tiny, like the bones of a sparrow. When had my mother become so fragile? How had I not noticed?

Mom put her other hand on my arm. Mer-child. Listen. She winced, blinked. Bright. A tear—pink with blood—crept from her left eye, trailed across her temple and melted into her hair.

I’m here, Mom. I’m listening, I whispered. The tightening knot in my gut was turning to ice.

The sound of water running in the kitchen—Ray was rinsing out his beer bottles. I knew he’d hide them before the medAngels arrived.

Mom whispered, too, her words slurred. You were . . . right. Her hand lifted, flopped. Ray . . . not safe. Promise if . . . you’ll go.

I frowned fiercely, forehead cramping with the effort to hold back the tears. Mom, no! You’ll be fine! You—

She interrupted. Go. If— She blinked, eyes unfocused, and squeezed my arm, hard. Promise!

My tears were collecting in a little pool at her collarbone. I promise, Mom, I whispered, my mouth twisting. Whatever she wants. Just—oh God, please—

A spot of blood gathered below her nostril, and I wiped it away, gentle. She released my arm, reaching up to touch my face. Mer-child, don’t cry. I love you so. I’ll be fine—’course I will. You’ll, too. She frowned, puzzled. D’you hear . . .

I shook my head. Hear what, Mama?

Music, she said, her face dreamy, distant. Beautiful. Better than DNN . . . And she hummed a little melody, but it was nothing I could identify—certainly none of the hymns broadcast hourly on the Divine News Network.

She coughed, wincing, then her eyes opened, her expression so lucid I was startled. Meryn, she whispered, her voice firm. Top drawer . . . Christmassss . . . ahh . . . She blinked, disoriented. Christmasssoo . . . go . . . Mer . . . The rest of my name vanished, unaspirated. Her eyes closed, her breathing morphing into a series of gasps.

I didn’t try to understand. I held her close, unable to stop the tears, my whispers desperate, half-articulated prayers.

Commotion at the front door, then down the hall. A medAngel entered the room and came straight to the bed. Ray lurked in the hallway, his hands clenching and unclenching on a kitchen towel, his face finally registering concern.

Help her! I pleaded, unable to stop the sobs even though I risked arrest. Please, help her!

Let them work. A man’s voice, behind me. I knew it was a Guard, but I couldn’t see him—I couldn’t take my eyes from Mom, the medAngel kneeling at her side, opening his kit, taking out a stethoscope, then a syringe . . . The man took my arm, not unkindly, and led me to the living room.

2. Cliff

On the balcony, I pulled up my jacket collar against the cold and an odd guilt. I hadn’t told the Guard about my intimate, whispered exchanges with Mom.

Did she have any last words? the Guard asked.

And I, who had been trained from childhood not to lie and threatened with dire warnings of hellfire for doing so, looked him full in the eyes and said, No, sir.

My biometrics mustn’t have so much as blipped, because he shrugged. That’s all I need, Miss Flint. Thank you for your cooperation. God comfort you in your bereavement. It came out wooden and impersonal, as if he were giving directions to Pentz Concert Hall. I nodded, oddly disappointed, and annoyed at myself for expecting anything different. I wanted compassion? From a Guard?

We entered the apartment, Ray and the other Guard murmuring low in the dining room. At that moment, the medAngels came down the hall, pushing the antigrav gurney that bore Mom’s body. A gasp escaped me. They’re taking her? My hand came up and my eyes veered to Ray, but his head was turned away. The medAngels brushed past, and my hand dropped. My stomach contracted into a quivering mess.

So . . . am I going to jail? Ray’s voice. Nervous.

Unlikely, the Guard replied. Typical domestic dispute. We have to file it, but it’s doubtful they’ll prosecute your case. His shoulder twitched. Too many others just like it. And you have a dependent. No worries, Mr. Esselin. You can always remarry.

Ray blew out a lungful of air, smiling.

Remarry. My right hand curled into an impotent fist. Somewhere deep inside me, a scream was building.

The Guards turned toward the door. They were going to leave me alone in the apartment with the man who had just killed my mother.

No! Pulse pounding, I pushed past the men, fleeing to the safety of my bedroom. Makeup tubes and palettes still lay in a random scatter on the dresser, but I ignored them, my eyes lifting to the cracked mirror. The face behind the tearstained ruin of my mascara wore an expression I didn’t recognize: haunted, shattered—old. The change frightened me, and I stepped back.

What now? The woman in the mirror shook her head, her eyes wide with panic. As a little girl, I’d fancied that my reflection was an alternate me—a girl smarter and richer, living a much nicer life, despite the identical Worker Caste bedroom. But the woman peering at me from the other side of the glass looked like she’d just lost her best friend. Did her mother tell her to run? Are you going to? I whispered.

Going, too? she whispered back.

I heard the echo of Mom’s voice: You’re not safe. Promise you’ll go. I sank to the bed. I have to. But where can I possibly go? I don’t have a brother or male cousin for protection. God help me! And what about my Duty?

Mom’s request was no small matter. She was asking me to go against Sanctioned Church doctrine. She was asking me to go against God.

Family Duty meant that as a young woman I had an obligation to remain chaste until my stepfather gave me in marriage to my future husband. My behavior must never violate—or even appear to violate—that Duty.

When I was thirteen, Sarah, a neighbor girl two grades ahead of me, ran off with a boy. They were gone three whole days before the Guards caught up with her. She became a pariah—a branded woman, destined for hell, forced to stay at home under the protection of her father for the rest of her life. It wasn’t long; within a week, she slit her wrists. No one found her until it was too late. Her father, talking with Ray in the courtyard, said the shame had driven her to it, but I thought he didn’t seem all that upset about it—almost as if she were an embarrassment he was glad to be rid of. I don’t know what became of the boy; Sarah’s father just said the whole incident was her fault for not having the sense to say no. Standing appropriately silent with Ray and Mom, I’d looked up at Ray, wondering if he would cry if the same thing happened to me.

I closed my eyes at the memory, avoiding my reflection, and warm tears oozed down my cheeks.

But a moment later, the chaos in my mind quieted, and I had an answer. An idea. You’re not running off with a boy. Go to work. Pack only food, clothes . . . and memories. Take what she would want you to have. Do it now.

It was a start. The face that greeted me when I opened my eyes was still lined with grief, but resolute. I nodded, and so did she. It’s what Mom wanted. Taking a deep breath, I rose and wiped away tears and the ruin of my makeup.

As I slipped into Mom’s bedroom, low voices murmured in the living room—the Guards hadn’t left yet. Deliberately turning away from the empty bed with its bloody pillow and scattered medical paraphernalia, I faced the battered dresser and opened Mom’s jewelry box.

She didn’t have much. Ray wasn’t rich, and I had no interest in the cheap baubles he’d given her. But a few pieces were hers by right, gifts from her parents. She would want me to have them. If I were to leave today, I had to take them now.

At once I found what I had come for: Mom’s cloisonné mermaid pin. It looked just like her, with green eyes, porcelain skin, and long, curly red hair coyly covering the bosom.

Mom was a romantic. She’d always believed in magical creatures—as much, I sometimes thought, as she believed in God—so I grew up hearing stories about fairies and mermaids, witches and trolls, elves and wizards. Far from eroding my faith, such stories helped me believe that anything was possible, and that God’s magic gilded life with purpose and joy. The pin in my hand reminded me to believe.

The other item was Mom’s coral necklace, a gift from her parents for her high school graduation. The necklace’s tiny, polished beads reflected Mom’s love for the sea and echoed the wild freedom of her spirit. When I turned thirteen, she let me borrow it for special occasions, and wearing it always made me feel grown up, like her. As I retrieved it now, tears leaked down my cheeks, leaving wet splashes on the scratched dresser top.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? Ray’s angry voice stopped my tears.

My hand was closed over the mermaid pin. As I turned, lifting the necklace, I slipped the pin out of sight in my pants pocket. Ray, could I wear this to work today? I didn’t have to fake the grief.

Ray’s expression changed from anger to something warmer. Sure, of course. His voice was gruff. He moved forward, arms up as if to embrace me. My stomach churned, and I took a quick step back. I hadn’t let Ray touch me for more than three years.

His face shifted to confused regret. His arms dropped. You—uh, you sure you want to work, Peanut? Call in. They’ll understand.

I shook my head. I can’t, Ray. I . . . have to do something. I have to get out of here. From the corner of my eye, I could see the bloody pillow. And the syringe.

You could, uh . . . Ray ran his hand through his hair. You could come with me. We’ll get something to drink.

At the bar. I’m eighteen, my mother just died, and you’re inviting me to an illegal bar. My face froze, and I shook my head. I’ll pass.

Ray stepped back, eyes lowering, and retreated to the living room. As I looped the necklace over my head, his voice echoed down the hall. Constance? It’s me. A chuckle. Are you going to The Watering Hole some—you are? Got the password? Good. See you in ten.

Astonishment, and white hot rage burst through the numbness of my grief. How DARE he!

I bolted down the hall . . . just as the front door closed behind him. I stood rooted to the floor in open-mouthed shock, tears of naked fury streaming down my face, wishing I had the courage to open the door and scream his crime for the world to hear.

Instead I sank to the worn blue carpet, sobbing into my hands, my heart breaking all over again. Oh, Mom! How long has he . . . Through my despair, I wondered if Mom knew. She must have. She knew everything about me, so I’m sure she could sense Ray’s . . . And yet she got up every day and fixed breakfast, and smiled at both of us as if—

Meryn. A tiny voice in my mind interrupted my thoughts. You don’t have time for this. Get up now. Get up!

Surprise felt distant. God? Mom? I resented the intrusion, but I wiped my face, pushed myself to my feet and lurched back to my room. At the threshold, I hovered, indecisive. Suitcase? No. Too obvious. I dug my biggest tote out of the closet, then chewed my lip, fiercely scrubbing away tears that wouldn’t stop. Okay. The house is on fire. You have five minutes. What do you take?

The first thing I grabbed was the hologram of me and Mom at the beach. Ray had taken it two years earlier when we’d spent a blissful afternoon at Silvermine’s only swim-safe stretch of sand. Mom’s smile beamed at me as I tucked it into my Bible next to my Gamma Maya’s cross-stitch bookmark, then I dropped the book in the bag. Atop it went Mystical Tales, the enchanting children’s stories I’d grown up on. Before she gave it to me, the book had been Mom’s; it was now banned. My childhood rag doll, Magicia, fitted neatly beside the books.

I tossed in makeup, folded my second uniform and laid it on top. A utilitarian skirt and T-shirt, socks, underwear. My high-heeled sandals I wrapped in a limp plastic shopping bag before stuffing them down next to the clothes. I didn’t wear heels much, but they were too expensive to leave behind. The cheap athletic shoes on my feet would serve for daily wear.

I looked around the room, seeing Mom everywhere: the wall hangings she’d crafted, the unicorn painting we’d worked on together when I was eight, the bedspread Mom had quilted in my favorite colors of lavender and light green, my fish tank with its tiny denizens darting and playing. I’d have to leave it all behind. I turned away, scrubbing my face with my sleeve.

As I zipped the tote, my chip tingled in my wrist, and I grabbed my phone. The message was from my manager, Mary-Sarah.

Meryn, are you aware you were scheduled to come in at noon? We’re extremely busy and I could use you.

I gasped—I was an hour late. Quickly I dictated a reply. I’m so sorry, Mary-Sarah. My mother just went home to Jesus, and the Guardian Angels needed my statement. I’m on my way.

Using the phone almost made me burst into tears again. Mom had given it to me for my eighteenth birthday, and the extra speed and chip sync made it worth its weight in gold. We couldn’t afford the brain implant that would give me the phone’s full functionality, but I didn’t want it, anyway. Too many people went crazy from implants. I sent the message and pressed mute. I didn’t have time for questions or condolences. Hefting my tote, I headed for the kitchen.

A startling sight greeted me. A frying pan lay upside down on the floor, two pork chops and a fork lying next to it in a pool of oil. One pork chop looked raw, the other browned. Frowning, I looked closer. Wait! That pork chop isn’t burned! Picking up the fork, I flipped over the ruined slab of meat, and fury shot through me again. What was that lying blackheart—

Meryn.

The fork clattered to the floor. Mom?

In my mind’s eye I saw a replay of Mom’s last moments, including her words about a top-drawer Christmas. I bit my cheek, my nose reddening. Mom loved Christmas, and she worked hard to make the season special, even when we had nothing. No. I can’t think about that now.

The burner was still aflame, so I shut it off. Then I hopscotched the oily spots on the floor and rifled through the pantry, taking packets of cold cereal, dried tofu, nori, crackers, peanut butter—anything that might keep me going that didn’t need cooking.

Pausing at the small whiteboard on the wall next to the fridge, I scrawled a quick note to Ray.

I’m not coming back. Please don’t call the Guards—I’ll be fine. I just can’t live here anymore. I hope you understand. Take care.

Ray would reprogram the door lock to reject my chip. I took a last look around, hefted the tote to my shoulder and headed for the door.

Meryn. No!

I stopped, uncertain. Mom! What am I supposed to do? I waited, hearing nothing but the clock ticking, and sighed. Meryn, you’re silly—

An interruption in my mind, another echo of Mom’s last words. Top drawer . . . Christmassss . . .

Wait. Was Mom trying to tell me something? Top drawer. The top drawer of her dresser? Or nightstand?

Dropping the tote, I sprinted to the bedroom and yanked open her drawer, where an organized array of undies, bras, and rundled stockings marched in neat rows.

Socks! I whispered. Mom’s Christmas socks! She wore them every year: a whimsical touch that helped make Christmas special. Frantic, I pawed through the clothes until I found the wreath socks at the back, covered by a scarf. Two neat rolls, side by side.

Two rolls? Mom doesn’t have two pairs of Christmas socks! The sock unrolled in my hand, heavy and round, and when I withdrew the contents, I gasped: a fat roll of Reformation Directorate scrip, secured with a rubber band.

The implant chip had rendered paper scrip almost entirely obsolete. Husbands liked it that way—they could easily track their wives’ spending. But Mom loved giving parties and little surprises. She’d talked Ray into giving her a small weekly allowance for the purpose, calling it her mad money.

Obviously, she’d been squirreling part of it away for some time. The top note was 20GP— God’s Provision dollars. If the rest of it is twenties . . .

I didn’t waste time counting. I carried the socks to the living room and stuffed them in my tote. Then my shoulders dropped, and my lungs released a breath I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding. Thank you, I whispered.

I heard nothing.

Looping the tote over my shoulder, I opened the front door . . . and stopped, paralyzed. Pausing before the walkway, I felt as if I were standing at the edge of a cliff, about to jump. The only sound was the metronomic ticking of Great-Gampa Flint’s clock from its spot on the living room table. Where am I going after work? Fresh anxiety knotted my stomach. Will a hotel even rent to me? A single woman, unescorted by a male—the odds weren’t good. In my mad preparations, I hadn’t even considered it, but it was my only option. Gamma and Gampa Flint were gone, killed in a hovercar wreck when I was three. And Ray’s parents had died before he even met Mom. He had no siblings that I knew of. Should I stay with Ray? No. Not possible. Even if Mom hadn’t told me to go. What do I do? Cold oozed in. I wondered what the woman in the mirror was doing.

I glanced over at Gampa’s clock. Centuries old and notoriously unreliable, the thing gained ten minutes every month and required weekly winding with a special key. I never understood why Mom kept it.

But now, its quiet tempo calmed me. The clock had marked every minute of Mom’s life, every minute Gamma and Gampa Flint had lived, and their parents before them, and on and on, going back at least to the American Reformation. The clock survived, and I will, too. Somehow.

Echoes of a hymn drifted from the courtyard below—someone watching DNN’s afternoon programming. I jerked with recognition.

Why should I feel discouraged?

Why should the shadows come?

Why should my heart feel lonely

And long for heaven and home?

When Jesus is my portion

A constant Friend is He

His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me.

The hymn was Mom’s favorite. She had often sung it in her lovely, light soprano while fixing dinner. I sometimes sang harmony with her, us smiling at each other across a stir-fry or soup pot. Memories overwhelming, I stood in the doorway, eyes closed, my toes on the sweep, letting the music wash over me as tears leaked down my cheeks. God, why? WHY?

I sing because I’m happy

I sing because I’m free . . .

To my surprise, a tendril of peace wrapped my aching heart, easing my grief, muting the anguished wailing of my soul, giving not answers, but comfort. In a quiet corner of my mind, I heard a familiar verse: I will never leave you nor forsake you.

My mouth twisted bitterness, and I stifled an angry thought as the song faded. A brief silence, and a prinister launched into a sermon. I couldn’t make out the words and I was glad.

Time to go.

Did God speak? Or my own thoughts? I didn’t know.

I stepped off the cliff, shut the apartment door and headed for the bus stop.

3. Adrift

As I boarded the bus the scanner beeped, registering my chip and deducting the fare from my RD Bank account. The vehicle smelled of body odor and urine and was noisy, crowded with afternoon-shift workers. I passed the first section of red seats reserved for Governance Caste passengers (always empty), then the next two rows of Management Caste green seats (almost always empty).

The bus lurched forward as I reached the blue Worker Caste section, and I grabbed an overhead bar to keep from falling into the lap of the balding, heavyset man in the second seat. His grin was kind, but I couldn’t smile back. Embarrassed to have met his gaze, I looked away. A lady never looks at a man directly. The blue section was full, so I headed to the Indigent section in the back. There I somehow found an empty brown seat and settled in with a sigh, balancing my tote on my lap. I couldn’t sit in a section reserved for a higher caste, but while going down caste might earn me a few frowns, it wouldn’t get me arrested.

Later I would realize I was in shock. At the time, I couldn’t understand why everyone was behaving normally. Anger curled around the edges of my devastation. Didn’t they understand that the world had just lost a brilliant, loving human being? My anchor, my support? How could they act as if nothing had happened? That twentysomething man in the blue section, laughing at the program on his phone—how dare he? I wanted him to feel pain like I was feeling pain. I wanted to scratch his eyes out.

I wanted the sun to fall out of the sky.

My nose reddened; my hands clenched the tote handle so hard that the stiff plastic bent double. Jesus, please help me with this. Help me not to hit anyone until I get to work. Well, not even then because I will lose my job, and I need my job. Thank You.

With a double handful of other riders, I disembarked at the Reagan Avenue stop and followed the queue to the subway entrance. A dozen elderly women sat on the freezing concrete apron outside, holding battered plastic cups and handmade signs that read Please Help. Known as tin widows, they were there every day, regular as clockwork, hoping to beg a packet of crackers or a bit of scrip to stave off starvation. Each woman wore a brown MT—the standardized, full-length dress the RD required married women to wear in public—under her coat or blanket, the garment’s dun color denoting their Indigent Caste status. Behind them, a filthy, glazed bank of snow towered higher than our heads, bits of trash embedded firm in the ice, and sometimes it seemed to me that the women were frozen into the snowbank, too, not to move until the spring thaw.

The crowd flowed past the women, ignoring their outstretched hands, and down the steps to the sub. Worthless hashers, a man muttered. My jaw tightened at the slur, but I didn’t dare look up; he wore a green Management Caste Ring, and today of all days I didn’t need a Caste Insult charge levied against me. A woman in her thirties wearing a blue MT paused, her eyes frightened, then covered her face with her scarf and hurried past.

I used to get angry at people who didn’t help the widows, until Mom told me not to. It isn’t for us to judge, she would say gently. Many people simply can’t afford to give a dime.

Today, I got angry. I couldn’t help it. I knew it would’ve upset Mom, and guilt seasoned my rage.

I