It all started on a Monday or maybe a Friday, all I know is it wasn’t a Wednesday. I would have known if it was a Wednesday, that’s when the rations were fresh or as fresh as they could get. I don’t remember if I was hungry, tired, or both. Honestly, it was both, when wasn't it both? What I do remember is that it was unusually cold. I was walking back from God knows where and the cold wind biting at my face was the only thing I clearly remember. It was unusual and welcomed. We were deep into summer and it felt as if the passing whispers of wind were trying to warn me. If only I had listened, maybe things would have been different.

The Sun had just set or at least it was trying to. Each time I felt the Sun pass down into the horizon, it was still there staring back at me, taunting me. The days are growing longer every year, soon the Sun won’t set at all. Nowadays the night only graces us for four hours after Midnight. Four hours of silence, four hours of reprieve, four hours of waiting. If only we would be so lucky for more. I try not to dwell on it for too long. It’s too hot to think of things that I can't change. 

As I walk down the sidewalk, it feels as if my feet are sinking into the floor with every step. They probably are, the scorching warmth melting the bottom of my shoes. A wet slap echoes with every step I take. At least here on The Edge, we have some semblance of what used to be. Not like other parts of the world where they are shrouded in darkness, in the cold. Lands so cold that every breath you take could freeze you to the core. Or their hellish counterpart where the Sun beats down for eternity, where the sands rule all. That is my only reprieve. That this isn’t Hell. Not yet.

I wonder if they’ll ever let everyone know why this is happening. They say it's due to the spin of the world stopping, but they always like to forget to tell us why it stopped. Everyone has their suspicions, but no one dares to question them, not openly. Only a few know the truth. The harsh reality is that only we are to blame. We caused this, we are still causing this. It’s too late. No, it's far too late. It’s been too late for a long time now. Some in the bunkers still want, still think, still believe. I don’t. Not anymore.

I’m lucky. A term that many wouldn’t say out loud, not if they didn’t want to be proven wrong. I found some extra ration cards today. A terrifyingly good thing. They burn a hole into my jacket pocket. Many would kill for these. I’m lucky I didn’t have to. Something had already done it for me. The kid's body was still warm, but what isn’t? The image flashes in my mind. His body flaked on the edges where his fingers, ears, and nose were. The Sun got him, not unusual to see. He was a pickpocket, as most children on The Edge are. It’s either that or if you’re lucky, a back-breaking job. Luckily, there’s that word again. 

Distracted by my thoughts, I don’t immediately notice when the downpour hits. At first, I flinch, startled by the sudden change in temperature. It’s cold, frighteningly so. And dark. What’s happening? It hasn’t rained on this side in ages, the dry air doesn’t allow it. The clouds almost obscure another fact. The Sun had set, but we still had three more hours.

Have we plunged from The Edge into a frigid cold hell? My thoughts are interrupted by the storm above and the crackling lightning that arches through it. I can feel it as it strikes down into a nearby warehouse. Followed by screaming.

 An angry scream directed at me. “Hey you, you’re not supposed to be here!” I notice a stout man wearing some sort of soldier uniform. His features are hidden by the storm, but I notice one oddity. A bullet crosses my vision straight into the crown of the man's head.

I’ve seen death in The Edge. Everybody does, it’s our way of life. Heatstroke, starvation, murder, factory accidents. The list never ends. The worst one I saw was during one of the water riots. The body of a mother, crushed and contorted under the fleeing swarm of people. She tried to protect her daughter with her body, the kid must have tripped and of course, the mother followed. In the end, it was all in vain. Neither of them made it. Even in death, we couldn’t pull the bodies apart, they were twisted together like an intricate knot. Almost poetic, if it wasn’t horrifying. You see a lot of death in The Edge, but it never gets any easier.

Before he even drops, I’m already halfway across the street towards the warehouse. The warehouse from before is my closest salvation. I slip and slide right up next to the steaming metal sheets that cover this warehouse. I can feel the blood wash off my face as the downpour gets stronger. I look back and see the headless corpse of the soldier lying flat on the sizzling ground. The body jolts as one more bullet hits the body again. I move over to the other side of the warehouse, farther away from the body. As I move I’m careful not to touch the scalding walls of the warehouse. My breath quickens and my head starts to spin. My heart hammers away at my chest. Is this how it ends? 

Just as fast as the storm arrived, it disappeared. The Sun beats down on me and the warehouse behind me. The water around me quickly evaporates off of me. For a second, steam blocks my view before I am hit with a sudden fit of nausea and empty my stomach straight onto the floor. I don’t know what’s worse, the smell of it cooking on the floor or the realization that I just wasted a day's worth of rations.

The silence is deafening. No more gunshots and no more pattering of the rain. I creep over to the edge of the warehouse and take a quick look around. There’s nothing, no one with a gun, in fact, there’s not a soul in sight. The clouds are gone and so is any evidence of rain in this area. It seems to have all steamed away. The only thing left is the headless body. I take this opportunity and make my way over to the corpse. I know it’s a risk. Maybe an Overseer passes by and sends me down the line. Maybe the person who shot this one is still watching me. It’s a risk, but every day on The Edge is a risk. Will the Sun get me today, maybe starvation, hell looking at anyone the wrong way could kill me. So, I push forward and check the soldier’s pockets. 

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He was a man, he would’ve been tall if it weren’t for his missing head. He wears an odd unfamiliar military uniform. It’s a dark green suit with metal buttons and a dagger-like insignia on either shoulder. The material is too thick for this weather and nobody wears metal, not unless they want second-degree burns by first break. His skin is also pale white. On this side of The Edge, you won’t find anyone this pale, not anymore. The only thing I find in his pockets is a leather-bound wallet and a couple of swirled hard candies. Damn, no ration cards. Maybe I could trade something. I eye the gun on his belt and the clean boots on his feet. I do a quick sweep around me before I slip the boots and gun off the dead man. Then I run and don’t stop running until I get back home.

Home is a big word. It implies that I like living here. Which I don’t, just to be clear. I set my eyes on the barely standing stone coffin that I call a home. It’s longer than it is wide. Just long enough to barely fit a bedroom and a kitchen. That’s all my house is, perks of the job. Every man, woman, and child over the age of twelve is given the benefit of a job on The Edge. Not every job gives you a house to call your own. I’m lucky. I walk in and quickly hide the boots and pistol behind a loose brick behind my bed. I call it a bed, but in reality, it’s just three couch cushions sewn together to make a bed. The only real bed in this house is my little sister's. It took me multiple months of rations to get her that broken-down excuse of a bed, but it’s better than what she used to have. I hear the clanging of a pot in the kitchen past the curtain barrier that separates my and my sister's room. She’s home. I take a couple of deep breaths and make my way towards the noisy kitchen.

“Useless piece of -” I hear her before I see her. A common occurrence given that she’s as loud as any of the whistles that signal throughout the work day. 

“You know you really shouldn’t beat the stove, it’s the only thing that makes your food bearable.” There she stands with dark brown skin and almost pure black hair. I say almost because she has dyed small streaks of it white. She says it helps with the heat, I think it’s just because she finds it cool. Her hair reaches her shoulders and waves almost to a curl. We look almost identical. I sport the same dark brown skin and almost pure black hair. She somehow convinced me to also dye some of my hair white. I managed to talk her down to one streak, thankfully. Unlike her hair, mine only makes it to my ear. Like our mother, we both have dark brown eyes and toothy smiles. The only thing we got from our father was our height and bad sense of humor. She’s tall for her age and I’m even taller than her. 

I remember 5 years ago when they were first assigning her a job. The Overseer took one look at her and joked “I thought beansprouts went extinct, but low and behold I’ve found myself one. This one won’t fit in the machinery, put her in the pantry.” That was my biggest worry at the time. That she would be crushed in the machinery, and become another child lost so that the machines keep running. The pantry is easy work or at least as easy as it comes. The same could be said for me, I have an easy job. I’m a technician, my dad taught me everything he knew about machines and then some. 

“Well if you find my cooking so unbearable maybe you try cooking it for once.” I cringe at the thought, her cooking may be unbearable, but mine would send you to the infirmary. 

“Alright, I’ll stop complaining. I’ll fix it right up” I relent and pull the stove out. It doesn’t take me more than a minute to find out the problem and fix it right up. 

“Try again.” My words are mixed with the cockiness only a brother could have. The stove alights and she sighs loudly. 

“We’re going to need a new one eventually. This is the fifth time this month.” I push the worry out of my mind and instead pull out the ration cards that were burning a hole in my pocket. 

“Where did you get those?” She grabs at them, counting out the days of extra food and water. 

“That’s at least a week of extra food and water. Counted it myself.” I push the image of the dead child out of my mind, trying to dodge where I got them. She notices and thankfully pushes past the topic. 

“More like three days, you keep forgetting there’s two of us.” In all honesty, I didn’t. I was just hoping she wouldn’t notice when she was the only one getting extra food and water. A stupid thought. A hopeful one.

“Must have miscounted. Clumsy old me.” She doesn’t buy the excuse but carries on. We play this game a lot. 

“Alrighty. Good thing I’m in charge of the rations. Otherwise, you would have gotten us killed long ago with your clumsy nature.” She laughs at the very idea of me being in charge of our ration cards. I smile. It's days like these that I realize why Dad named her Maple. He used to say that Maple trees would turn bright red when Fall came, just like she does when she laughs. In comparison, Mom named me Ash because of how white I would get when I was in trouble, the same as the flowers on an Ash Tree. The thought of my parents reminds me how empty this house is. 

There used to be four of us. Mom and Dad passed away ten years ago when I was fourteen and Maple was seven. They went out to get some supplies at the Market. Something they always did. They were just unlucky that day. The Overseers had decreased the amount of water a ration could get you that week. Something to do with a burst pipe. Well, the people at the market then decided it would be a good idea to show them what they thought of these changes. Our parents just got caught in the crossfire between the rioters and Overseers. It took me a whole day to dig them a grave. It’s just a bit outside of the city, not too far to walk.

Maple puts down a bowl of soup right in front of me and kicks me out of my thoughts. “Crazy rain we had today, right?” She looks at me as if I’ve finally lost my mind. 

“Are they working you too hard at the factory?” What a stupid question, of course, they are. 

“Of course not. I just wanted to talk about the freak weather.” I take a sip of the soup and live to regret it. 

“There wasn’t any rainstorm. There hasn’t been rain let alone a cloud around these parts in ages. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” I try to search her face for a lie, maybe a smirk, but it never shows. She’s telling the truth. There hasn’t been a rainstorm for years. But if that’s the case then what did I see today? 

“Must’ve been a trick of the eyes.” A convenient lie for myself and her.