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Flich will not stop talking with his mouthful. Walker seems use to it as his ear is literally chattered off. I want to throw my fork at Flich. I don’t, keeping my frustrations and head down.
Don’t draw attention.
It’s morning now; breakfast.
We arrived to dinner late last night and turned out, I couldn’t keep anything down. I just threw it up. Also ended up passing out as soon as my face hit the pillow. I feel a lot better, so I guess that’s a plus.
Now, I’m just surrounded by one babbling adult and a whole mess hall of Reds. Dozens of tables fill the room, a group of men at each. They eat and chat as if they aren’t in a prison city and maybe to some, it isn’t. Maybe this is the life they want and that’s why only they’re so happy. …show more content…

“Better than being out there.”
I tilt my head, actually looking at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re from outside Scelestus City too. It’s not hard to figure out. Most people here are born into this prison, but there are an unfortunate few who get tossed in and survive. Mostly people who have value, like us.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “It makes us a no-touch zone.”
I’m confused. “Huh?”
Walker speaks up. “No one here is going to hurt you; that is if they like their heads. You’re a mechanic. These Reds aren’t allowed to touch you.”
“Good to know.” I could use that to my advantage, maybe.
I freeze as a familiar head of black hair and piercing green eyes move through the tables. My heart jumps into my throat as my hands clench into white knuckles. I try to swallow, unable to find my breath.
I’m panicking.
I can’t panic.
Relax.
Just keep my head down and relax.
My hand subconsciously rubs my very sore shoulder. I still can’t lift my arm right. The image of the knife embedded into my flesh has a shudder coursing through my spine. I shut my eyes, exhaling deeply.
Maybe it’s just my imagination.
Maybe…
I steal a peek over my shoulder and my imagination becomes a reality.
Jagger.
He stands only two tables away, facing my direction. A mostly healed burn mark paints the side of his face where my missed shot tagged him. His hair is a mop of wild black as if he just rolled out of bed. If he spots me, I’m dead.
No, I’m worse than dead.

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