One city patrol soldier punches her father squarely in the jaw. He falls to his knees.
“You damn dogs!” Charlie shouts at the patrol. “You liars! We’re not behind on shipments—we’re not even in charge of that! You can’t—”
“Calm down,” one of the soldiers snaps at her. “Or you’ll feel the bite of a bullet. Got that?” Then he nods to his companions. “Confiscate their shipment.”
Charlie screams something I can’t make out, but her father shakes his head at her, giving her a firm warning. A trail of blood leaks from the edge of his mouth. “It’ll be okay,” he calls out to her even as the soldiers hurry along the end of the pier and load crates onto their truck.
I wait quietly in the dark as they fill their truck. If they take Charlie’s whole shipment, then that means they won’t get paid for at least two weeks. Some of them would go hungry for sure. A memory rushes back to me of when the city patrols had once taken my dad away for questioning, how they’d brought him back bloodied and broken. Anger and recklessness rush through my mind. I narrow my eyes at the soldiers, then dart quietly from the shadows to the edge of the water. As the chaos continues to unfold at the end of the pier, no one notices as I slip soundlessly into the water and make my way off along the shore. My bad knee protests as I paddle, but I grit my teeth and ignore it.
When I’ve swum far enough to reach the next set of piers, I make my way up to the banks, crawl up to street level, and melt into the early-morning crowds. Water drips down my chin; my soggy boots squish with each step I take. The soldiers will probably take another few minutes to finish loading everything up and checking off the crates—by the time they head back out this way to Lake’s police station, I’ll be ready for them. As I limp through the crowds, I reach down to my belt and tug open the pouch of trinkets. I’ve got a good stash of nails. I scatter them all across the street until I’m confident that I’ve covered a large swath of the road. Then I turn a corner, dart into a narrow alley, and crouch behind a large trash bin. My knee throbs in protest. I rub wet strands of hair impatiently away from my face.
I gingerly stretch out my leg, wince, and rub at the old scar that runs across my knee. Gotta move fast if I want this to work. I check to make sure my pocketknife’s tucked securely against my boot, then settle in to wait.
A few minutes later, I hear what I’ve been hoping for—the sound of a city patrol truck approaching from farther ahead, its recognizable beeping alarm ringing out down the street. My body tenses.
The truck draws nearer. People clear to either side as it honks its way through the morning rush.
Then—
Pop!
One of the truck’s tires bursts—it skids, then careens haphazardly to one side, sending up some shrieks from the crowd. It crashes to a halt several feet from where my alley is. I struggle to my feet. The back of the truck has popped open in all the chaos, and a dozen or so crates lie open and spilled on the streets.
Two soldiers hop out from the truck right as crowds of people gather around the truck, some already eagerly picking up cans of meat that have rolled out of the broken crates. “Back up!” one soldier shouts in vain at the crowd. The other soldier pushes people back with his rifle.
I rush in with the pack. If I could grab even one of the crates and bring it back to Charlie, I’d call that a win. The people tower over me, jostling me back and forth as everyone tries to snatch a small portion of the food. I duck my head, fold myself down as small as I can, and push doggedly on. Finally, I see the truck before me—and the spilled contents all over the ground.
I reach down and shove two tins of meat right into my pockets. Then I grab the edge of one crate, pull back with all my might, and start dragging it along the ground. Several other soldiers have arrived to back up the original two; I try to work faster as they begin pushing people back from the scene. I clench my jaw and pull harder.
“Hey—get away from that!”
A soldier catches sight of me, grabs me by the collar of my shirt, and tosses me unceremoniously back against the throngs. My bad knee buckles—I cry out in pain and land in a weird position. The soldier grabs the crate I was dragging and shoots me a furious glare. “Damn baby street cons,” he spits at me. “Go back to your alley. Keep your hands off Republic property.”
That’s mine, I scream silently. That’s for Charlie. To my surprise, an urge to cry surges up from a deeper part of me. That’s for my family. For people I care about.
But there’s not much I can do now. I’m too late, I’m too small, and I’m too weak. The scene I’ve caused is useless to me now—enough soldiers have arrived that the people no longer have the guts to grab for the crates’ contents.
I scramble to my feet, then shove my way through the people as the soldiers gather to inspect the burst tire of their truck. At least I banged up one of their precious vehicles, I think darkly.
I make my way back to the pier where Charlie’s crew works. By the time I get there, my knee’s sore. I’m sweaty and exhausted. Charlie sees me from a distance, jumps down from the stack of crates she’s sitting on, and rushes over. “There you are,” she says. She seems to have composed herself since her earlier outburst. Her eyes run over my damp clothes. “Where’d you go?”
I just shrug. I pull the two tins of meat out of my pockets. “There was some sort of commotion down the street,” I reply, handing her the tins. “Truck overturned. I grabbed these. Sorry—they wouldn’t let us get any closer. How’s your dad?”