The Ordeal

Chapter Three

The sliding fence creaks extra loud as my dad pulls it down over the storefront. He uses the sound to cover a sigh, but I hear it anyway. He looks at me and shakes his head when he sees that I noticed.

"Don't worry about it, son. There's always tomorrow."

I tighten my lips into an optimistic grin, or the closest I can get to it, and nod once. It's hard for me to go along with this. There were no sales today, just like yesterday and the day before. After our conversation this morning, I know this is weighing heavily on my dad. I could say 'I told you so', but I want things to be OK between us. I don't like being right in this.

"I'm going to stop by Kris's stall on the way back, is that OK?" I try my best to sound casual about this, but it's what I've been looking forward to all day.

My dad gives me a shrewd look and smiles for real this time. "Get back before dark. Mechas are getting bolder around here."

I nod and almost start sprinting down the street.

The Basin can be a confusing experience. At first glance things look pretty normal: there are houses and streets and shops and lampposts. There are people going about their day doing the things people usually do: working, shopping, arguing. It's only when you look closer that you realize things are much worse than they look. The houses are crumbling, the streets are cracked and slick with filthy wash-off, most of the shops are boarded up and at night most of the lampposts don't work.

And the people...most are either gaunt or obese, nutrient starved either way. Many are yellow with jaundice, or show signs of suffering from any number of other diseases that sprouted from the perfect storm of climate change, antibiotic resistance and an almost permanent diet of junk food. They're irritable, short-tempered and short-sighted.

It's only against this backdrop that I could be called one of the lucky ones. I'm tall and strong, thanks to my daily training regimen and a strict diet of the healthiest, cheapest food my dad can scrounge up, which unfortunately means taste got the short end. My mouth waters as I pass the occasional food stall. The fried dough-sticks are only a dollar, but I don't have any money on me and my dad would make me do fifty extra burpees.

I reach the flea market, just as run down as the rest of the place but there's an energy and a bustling quality you can't find elsewhere. People here are at least trying to make a better life for themselves. Some stalls even do fairly well, rare bright spots in an otherwise bleak economy. It's the afternoon so things are winding down, but there are enough stalls still open so that walking down the main pathway means running a gauntlet of shouting merchants. But I'm only interested in one stall, at the very end of the market.

There it is: the smallest stall in the market, a rickety wooden framework and threadbare canvas coming together to invite you into a whole other world. A world where art sets the rules and beauty is the only truth. Kris is amazingly creative. She has paintings, needlework, necklaces and more, all handcrafted. They're not on display in any particular order, but somehow when you take it all in it seems like there's a master plan to it.

I can tell nobody's stopped by in a long time, but Kris stands by her booth, smiling confidently as if she's trying to manage a rush of customers. She tucks a lock of jet black hair out of her face and behind her ear, but it falls right back down almost immediately. I know in a few minutes she'll do it again, optimistically fighting a never-ending battle to keep her hair in order.

She sees me coming and her smile changes to one only I get to see.

"I think you would look good in my new reclaimed wood necklace," she says. My checks turn bright red. Thankfully the sun is starting to go down and it doesn't show.