The World is on Fire

Chapter 3

Time passed slowly and Josephine's anxiety began to ebb and morph into a form of restless energy. Simon simply called it being stir crazy, but it didn't fully encompass the other emotions that were mixed with it.

Not that she was wanting time to move faster, but a part of her was growing impatient. Waiting for the inevitable shoe to drop only made her more on edge. Josephine had been bracing for the guards to come back and haul her and Simon off, but as one day bled into two and then three and then a week, she had grown tired of waiting.

The passage of time was marked by consistent meals, or at least what she assumed were consistent, she had no means of timing them, but Simon was confident that their three meals a day were four hours apart. How he'd managed to calculate that, Josephine had no clue and didn't ask.

There was nothing in their cell to entertain themselves with, so they'd resorted to talking to each other. Something that Josephine found she didn't mind. And slowly she began to feel less apprehensive about him as they'd shared their collective survival stories and all of their close calls while on the run.

She had evaded any more talk of her own parents but had learned that his were still alive and in government jobs. His bitter tone had suggested his disdain for their positions and, Josephine assumed, their compliance with what was happening.

Josephine had asked if they'd attempted to keep him from being selected to be sold by the government once the US had begun forcing its citizens to comply. Simon had merely laughed and changed the subject. She hadn't broached the topic again.

Their room was currently quiet as Josephine lay on her bed while counting the hairline cracks in the concrete ceiling for the millionth time.

And just as she was about to finish her mundane task and begin again, a woosh and the sound of metal scraping along concrete sounded alerting her to their final meals for the day.

Sighing, Josephine gathered her tray and just for a change of pace, sat on the ground in front of her bed before picking at the stale bread and what she assumed was a chicken broth. Simon did the same, sitting across from her and picking up the plastic spoon.

"I'm surprised they'd give us such an incredible weapon."

Josephine snorted, dipping a piece of bread into the broth, a half-smile gracing her face.

"I'm glad one of us can find the humor in a spoon."

"It probably just means I'm losing it," he said.

When she didn't deny it, he slapped a hand against his chest, "You wound me with your silence."

"And you wound me with your dramatics," she clipped back.

"Whatever happened to non-sarcastic Josephine? I want that version back, please and thanks."

She rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.

"She was much more mature too," Simon angled his head, "Maybe you're the one that's losing it."

"I've known that since day one actually."

Josephine picked at another piece of her bread before looking back up at Simon. He seemed to sense her shift in mood and returned her stare, waiting for her to continue.

"Do you know if anything would happen to us if we aren't...chosen?"

He shrugged, "I've never heard of anyone just being let go, if that's what you mean."

She tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. But it must have shown anyway because Simon's expression softened slightly.

"Not that that couldn't happen," he amended, "but the likelihood is low at best."