I wake up startled. The time is drawn on the walls: nine-thirty in the morning. It takes me a bit to clear my head and figure out where I am. After years of sleeping in the same bed, opening my eyes, and not seeing the usual throws me off. I have to spend several minutes of my time remembering that I'm no longer on Greg's plantation but in the city of New America. I walk barefoot to the window. From the seventeenth floor, I only see free people like ants down there, walking. Above the skyscrapers, the airships come and go, cutting through the sunny blue sky.

—You have thirty minutes to get ready. —The voice of a robotic woman sounds in the room.

I shower and put on the uniform provided by the State Administration. They are stretchy green pants and a white short-sleeved shirt. My slave identification number is inscribed on the chest. I leave the room and walk down the long parquet hallway to the elevator. What a machine. It descends seventeen floors in less than ten seconds. I've never seen anything like it. When I step out, several young people in the same uniform walk to the building's lobby while an official gestures with his hands, indicating where we should go.

—Where are we going? —I ask the official.

—It's better if you eat something before the Interview.

I don't know how long it's been since I had breakfast like this. Milk, juice, sweets, and fruit. Before going to work each day, I would, at most, drink a little juice. As I eat an apple, I look around. I've sat alone because I don't know anyone. I see that some groups have formed. Even some other slaves have winked at me in a clear attempt to get to know me, but I'm reluctant to meet new people. Still, I haven't stopped noticing the girls. I don't know, for now, I want to keep my distance. The Interview is the test to access the Administration, and it's better to focus on it. According to my abilities, I'll go to one place or another to work. For now, I belong to the Provinces.

Two officials ask us to form a line when we finish breakfast. I wish with all my soul that they let us go out into the street. I feel trapped in the grand city of New America. I want to wander its alleys, look at the faces of the people who live here, and discover the secrets a city holds. I'm afraid I'll have to wait for that. They send us to the upper floors of the building and make us enter a large auditorium.

—Wait here for your turn, please. We'll be calling out your identification number, and you'll go through that door. —The official points to our shirts, as if we don't know our damn number by heart. It's tattooed on our skin.

Waiting drives me crazy. A lot. Even more for me, since I'm very impatient. So, I start counting. We are about eighty—three. I've moved to the back row of the auditorium. Down there, they continue getting to know each other in groups, sharing ideas, names, and anecdotes. Am I the odd one out? Our lives are pathetic lives of slaves; nothing special about them. The only thing that interests me about those conversations is the places they come from and what they're like. I'd like to compare the legends and myths told about distant lands. Gradually, the room empties, but there are still many of us left. I untie my mother's scarf from my wrist to tie it back on. I stare into space, thinking about her. Lunetta, my mother, hadn't died of tuberculosis on Greg's plantation. She had been sentenced to death. Sentenced. What had she done? Mrs. Hall didn't tell me anything else, although I can understand why she kept things to herself. During the airship journey to New America, looking at the cover of that strange book, I deduced that what happened to her must have been related to it. That's why I want to read it as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I need help. First, it's been a long time since I read. I'm very slow, and some things have slipped my mind. It annoys me to admit it, but it's the truth. Second, I don't understand many words; they seem very old—fashioned. I started reading the Bible on that journey, and in the first paragraph, my head was already pounding. I'm going to need someone to lend me a hand. I know it's a dangerous book, so I have to choose wisely whom to trust, with more than just words, in whom to place my trust.

—Don't you feel a bit lonely here? —A guy with three—day stubble and flattened hair approaches. He wears an impeccable smile.

—We do. We've talked, and you seem like the most interesting guy in this auditorium. —Adds a redhead girl.

—I prefer solitude to bad company. —I reply seriously.

—My name is Clarise.

—And I'm Ed. What's your name?

—Eric. Eric Moon.

—Say no more—says Ed—From the Province of Georsiana? You have a northern look.

—Close. From the Central. —I smile. —Do you know what the Interview is about?—They seem friendly.

—Nobody has the slightest idea. —Clarise shrugs. —Although it can't be that bad. After all, we're not going to be free, just slaves of the Provinces. More of the same as what we already know, just in another place.

The official calls out another number aloud.

—That's mine. —Ed stands up and looks at me. Then at Clarise. —See you, good luck.

Clarise sits next to me, and in silence, we watch as Ed leaves the auditorium to face his destiny. After a few seconds, she blurts out:

—Haven't you thought about escaping tonight? —I turn to her, looking surprised. —Come on, don't deny it. You and everyone else must have at least considered the idea. —She runs her fingers through her red hair. —I have a plan.

—You're crazy. Have you forgotten that we're in the capital of the United Provinces?

—That's exactly why! It's so big that there are thousands of hiding places.

—And what will you do? Then, when you have no roof over your head or food. You'll be a vagabond.

—I decided a long time ago to leave the Provinces—She said, looking at the ground. She doesn't know who I am; in fact, we're two damn strangers, and she's revealing all her secrets to me. What does she want?

—I don't think you're serious. There's nothing beyond the north of the last province.

—I'll find out. And you? What's your plan? To continue the life of a slave in the Provinces until death?

—For now, I prefer to take it one step at a time. Everything is due in time. I'll start by trying to find out something about my mother. —I don't know why I say it, but I do. What does it matter now? This redhead girl has broken through all my barriers with her natural charm.

—You don't know her?

—I never knew her.

—Ah, I'm sorry. —She falls silent. She seems sincere. Very sincere. Not only because of her gestures but also because of her facial features, I know she's telling the truth.

—I would help you, but you know, I have a plan. —She gestures, and we both laugh.

I wish Clarise luck when they call out her slave number. We haven't exchanged much information about each other, but we didn't need to. The few words we've exchanged have been sufficient and concise. I think it's because of empathy. Slaves have it highly developed as if we have a collective consciousness, meaning we know what we are, and we sympathize with each other because of it. The wait in the damned auditorium and the uncertain future make Clarise and me understand each other mutually. I don't know if I'll see her again. My instinct tells me no because she's too clear-headed, but I know I will. Something that both pleases and terrifies me at the same time. I take for granted that she'll soon try to escape, and she might succeed. I hope she does and doesn't end up killed by the Provincial Police or some owner.

They call my name when there are barely four people left in the large waiting room. I walk calmly, pass through the door, and another official leads me down a hallway with marble floors and a large window at the end. I try to peer outside from a distance, but my guide opens the door to our left and pushes me inside. It's a small and messy office covered with shelves of books. They're probably the Code of Laws that every official must know inside out. It's hard to breathe; the air is heavy with smoke. There's an older man behind the desk with a pinkish face and many wrinkles. His hair is graying. He can't be as old as he looks. He gestures for me to sit down, and he lights another cigarette. Another one.

—Put this on, please—he hands me a metal bracelet with digital numbers corresponding to my slave identification, and I put it on my free wrist, the left one, covering the tattoo with my name and identification number.—I'll be asking you a series of quick questions to cross-reference our information, and you'll answer them with total honesty. Pure protocol. Answer truthfully if you don't want to be assigned to a Camp.

—A camp? —I inquire. I don't know what it means.

—Yes, to chip away at rocks day and night— he says curtly. I better keep quiet and tell the truth because that place doesn't sound too good. —Let's begin.

—Okay.

—Speak only when prompted—he looks at me over the blank sheet of paper he's holding. —Name.

—Eric Moon—I reply, as he types on a black keyboard.

—Date of birth.

—September twenty—fifth, 170 years after the Collapse—I keep my fingers on the keyboard and my eyes on the computer screen.

—Place of origin.

—Greg Gordon's cotton plantation in the Central United Province.

—Education level?

—Excuse me?

—Can you read and write?

—Yes—I try not to hesitate. I can do it, even though I haven't practiced in years. I can do it.

—Computer skills?

—No—I don't know what it is, only that it has to do with those computers he's operating.

—Electromechanical knowledge?

—No—I do know that. Damn, Luke.

—Have you worked in anything other than the cotton plantation?

—No.

—Can you drive?

—No—I wish. It must be amazing to pilot one of those airships.

—Alright, Eric Moon. Based on this data and the available positions, the only job opportunities you have in the Administration of the United Provinces of America are in the public transportation system, as an assistant to the Provincial Police, as a firefighter, or in desalination plants. Which one appeals to you the most?

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I don't look at him. I need to think about it. I've never decided about my future, and to be honest, none of the options appeal to me. Desalination plants are tough, and I would have to move to one of the islands. It would be too drastic of a change. Plus, I have to stay in the city if I want to learn more about my mother. Maybe being a firefighter...

—If you're not sure, you can always be rented through a public auction.

—Public auction?

—Usually, it's small landowners or groups conducting scientific research and experiments who attend these auctions. They pay the Provinces for temporary ownership of slaves, and often, these slaves have more freedom. But they're completely dependent on the owner who rents the merchandise. There are also families looking for domestic slaves at these auctions. I don't know, kid, it's up to you.

I don't want to choose. I start to feel nervous. I can't decide this in seconds because I don't know how to discern between what's best and what's worst for me. I've always been told what to do because I've never been able to make my own choices. On top of that, the official is watching me, expecting an immediate response, without understanding that the future can't be chosen like that on a whim.

—Do you prefer the auction then? —He leans in.

—Yes—What choice do I have?

The previous official waits for me outside the office. He grabs my left hand tightly and checks the bracelet I've put on with an electronic device. I suppose he sees the destination the State has provided for me on that gadget, and he pushes me. An electric shock runs through my body, and I fall to the ground.

—You know what awaits you if you try anything strange— I look at the bracelet and curse myself.

We walk briskly down the hallway. We return to one of the elevators, and I watch as the official's fingers press the button for the minus-two floor. He doesn't speak or gesture.

—Where are you taking me? —I don't know if I can trust the United Provinces State anymore. A chill runs down my spine.

—Shut up.

The minus two floors of the State building stinks. A stale smell fills the air as soon as I enter. Numerous people are coming and going, bustling about. What strikes me as curious is that some clothing and faces seem familiar. I see in them the sweat and effort of hard work. Others do not. Others wear pristine suits and extravagant dresses, holding handkerchiefs to their faces to endure the smell of the storefronts. This floor is an entire city, a city traversed by a multitude of streets and labyrinths. It's a market. A slave market. There are display cases everywhere. Display cases that are nothing more than platforms where slaves to be sold or auctioned off are placed. There's a boy of about seven whose legs tremble. He must have been up there for quite some time. His owner, a raggedy, unkempt woman, shouts his name and price at the top of her lungs. Poor child. I see myself reflected in him. It could have been me if I hadn't been born in the countryside and not in the city, on a plantation. Yes, I was born a slave, but nobody toyed with me and my dignity for a handful of dollars. Now they will. And the worst part is that I've chosen it myself.

As I make my way through the real labyrinths, I see small stalls. Mostly selling food, but also clothing. The people behind the counters seem humble, so I deduce that this must not be from the Provinces. Rather, the United Provinces State sets up an area where goods are bought and sold, and they take advantage of it to carry out their transactions as well. I reach the area where slaves from the Provinces are auctioned off, more decent cleaners, and where many more people pass through, almost all of them high class. I can tell them apart by their clothing and the perfume they leave behind as they walk. I close my eyes and imagine Sophie. That sweet smell reminds me of her. Is she here? Did she come to this place? I push her out of my head when Greg Gordon comes to mind. She's fine, I know it.

Clarise is being auctioned off. The official leaves me in the care of the United Provinces State slave seller, and he gives me a prime spot next to her in the display cases. Everything looks different from up here. You can see the end of the market, which has an exit to the outside, to the city. You can see the different areas the market is divided into and the goods themselves. And, especially, you can see those who have enough money to buy slaves. I'm not afraid. I haven't been afraid for a long time, but this place does give me a bit of respect. For what it is and for the people who frequent it. I'm sure the youngest children are orphans or have been stolen from their mothers' arms. Money turns people into inhuman beings. I think about myself. What will become of me? I belong to the Provinces, guarantor of slavery, at least, that gives me a slight sense of security. I give Clarise a smile, who's beside me. A bit forced, but it’s complicit.

—I'm starting to like your plan more and more—I tell her. Right now, all I want is to escape, as she said. Anywhere but here, away from this filth.

—It's the only valid one for these times—she replies, shrugging. She maintains a rebellious posture, supporting her weight on one foot, with the other forming a small arch, hands on her hips.

— Shut your mouth! —our seller warns us.

I avoid looking at my potential buyers. What does it matter what I do if they have the final say? Whoever wants to buy me will do so, no matter how much I try to intimidate them. No one pays attention to me because Clarise captures all the attention. There's a young man with well—kept long blond hair, dressed in a gray suit whose jacket extends past his waist. He calls the seller and asks about the price of the girl.

—Six months, three thousand dollars. One year, five thousand— I hear the seller reply. —Her price keeps rising due to the number of offers, but none of them satisfy, for now, the United Provinces State.

—Tell me how much it costs to buy her outright the—young man replies.

—I'm sorry—the merchant says, smiling—but you know that these specimens belong to the United Provinces and must return after their assignment to individuals.

—I'll pay much more than it's worth. You know...

—Of course, Mr. Scofield, but rules are rules. In any case, let me tell you that we can reach an agreement.

—I bet you can.

—You make a juicy offer, and we sell Clarise to you—he looks at the screen of one of his electronic devices to say her name—with the State retaining an option to buy over the next three years.

I observe the seller's uniform and dissect the tone of voice with which he speaks. He doesn't seem to be more than a subject who can negotiate with a rich man. I wonder why a guy like him has so much money and why he's fixated on Clarise, apart from her looks. It must be torture to hear them talk about you like that when you're listening. Clarise looks at me and gestures a yawn. The two men are striking a deal. Then she looks at me and rolls her eyes.

—Get down from there, Clarise. You've been sold to Mr. Scofield. Congratulations. Accompany him to speed up the paperwork.

Clarise dismisses the help of the official. She smiles at me one last time, and I see her thumbs up, a sign that she's continuing with her escape plan and a way to say: "I'm okay," as she leaves.

I haven't even noticed, with Clarise's sale, that four eyes are watching me. Or rather, two that seem to be dissecting me whole. It's a girl, at least, that's what her figure implies, as she's heavily covered. She wears a scarf covering her hair and head and sunglasses that conceal her eyes and where they're looking. She covers her nose and mouth with a small handkerchief due to the smell. She's not wearing a dress, but tight pants and a hypnotic design hoodie. Beside her is an older man who complements his completely strange white suit with another pair of sunglasses. He looks like a doctor. It gives a bad feeling.

—He's young and muscular— she says to him, looking at me and reading the file with my data. —He seems carefree.

—I don't think we need to look any further—he tells her.

I look at her intently. I'm not a guinea pig to experiment with new biological processes. She doesn't get scared but instead moves closer and takes off her sunglasses. I crouch down, knowing she wants to tell me something. At a meter away, I don't understand why she covers those gray eyes as lively as the hunting wolf's hair that Mr. Hall brought to Gordon's house when I lived with them. Gray with an electric storm of yellow flashes inside. I'm paralyzed by her gaze and the question she whispers:

—Do you know how to read and write? —What's with the obsession with writing and reading here?

—I'm not an expert, but I manage.

—Where are you really from?

—United Central Province. Cotton plantation.

After saying that, she returns to the side of that man, and I stand up. They whisper to each other. Then she asks the official about my price.

—One thousand dollars for six months, one thousand five hundred for a year. —Well, it seems I'm worth much less than Clarise.

—It can't cost that much. How about six hundred?

—No way, miss.

I see the disappointment in her gestures, as I can't glimpse her face. She talks again with the man, who shakes his head. Then she looks at me again.

—Your price is too high. —She tells me, then lowers her head and grabs onto the man's arm.

—You. —I say to her.

—Shut up. —The seller forces me. —You can't talk.

I won't do it again. She turns around, and I gesture for her to come closer again.

—If you tell me why you want someone like me, I'll make them lower the price.

—It's a secret, I can't...

—Well, I just need you to promise me that guy won't crack my head open or force me to take weird pills. —She laughs. It's my chance. I can easily deceive her. Gain her trust and then escape. Go far away, I don't know where. Anyway, I'll still be a slave all my life, now of the United Provinces, later, again, of Greg Gordon. And I want to be free.

—I promise not to experiment with you. What I will tell you is that I need someone like you for my research.

—Medical?

—Social. —I don't know what she means by that, though I know she's telling the truth.

—Six hundred? —I ask her.

—At most seven hundred. It's all my savings... —Saving up to own a slave? Maybe she just needs a whim?

—Official! Hey!

—This is the third time I'm telling you to shut up.

—If you don't sell me that girl, I don't want to continue in the auction.

— Sir... —he looks at the screen of his tablet— Eric, you're not entitled to choose.

—You're wrong, I can work in the transportation system, in the police, as a firefighter, or even go to the desalination plants in the Islands Province. And I chose the public auction. Sell me, or I refuse to continue being auctioned off.

—Lower your voice, and we can talk about it. —He looks at the other slaves of the State. I've hit the nail on the head. Just as we've chosen to be auctioned off, we can refuse to be sold to whoever we don't want. It's a legal loophole that the slaves don't know, and the Provinces and their officials guard it jealously to reap huge profits.

He takes me down from the display and calls the girl and the doctor. I'm present for the deal.

—Six hundred and fifty for six months, and is everything settled? —The girl with gray eyes nods, and so do I. —Accompanies my colleague to settle the paperwork.

Another official pushes me, guiding us to administrative offices, where the contract will be signed.

—Can you stop mistreating him? —She asks the official.

—Are you worried about him?

—Obviously, he's now my property.

The doctor enters one of the offices to make the payment and settle the final details of the contract while the official urges me to pick up my belongings from the room on the seventeenth floor. They transfer the keys and a small remote control to the girl with gray eyes, which I assume correspond to the bracelet I'm wearing and that produces electric shocks. Instead of the official, she accompanies me to the seventeenth floor. We don't speak in the elevator. She keeps covering her face, and I can't observe any weakness, any glance, any gesture. Nothing.

—When are you going to take that thing off your head? —I ask her.

—That's none of your business.

—You seemed nicer when you couldn't afford me.

—Let's pick up your things quickly, please.

—You're not going to zap me with this thing, are you? It can fry me.

—Eric...

She falls silent as the elevator opens and we enter the seventeenth floor. After all, I don't think it's going to be so easy to deceive her. Maybe I won't be able to escape. We enter the room. I only have a couple of changes of clothes, thanks to Greg Gordon. What interests me the most is the book my mother left for me. That's my real treasure. I leave it on the bed while I pack the clothes in my backpack.

—I didn't know you read. You told me you only managed.

—Yeah, you're not the only one who's lied. —I glance at her and smile.

She approaches and picks up the book.

—The Collapse of the Runes! It used to be my favorite a few years ago...

—Leave that book, gray-eyed girl.

—I have a name.

—Yeah, but you haven't told me yours yet.

—I love the beginning of this story, it transports you to that world from the first line... —I approach and take the book from her because she's opened it and is flipping through the pages, pushing her back. I close it and hold it close to my chest. —It's not The Collapse of the Runes...it's... The Bible!

—Shh. Quiet!

—It's a banned book, you know that, right?

—Yes.

—Eric, don't worry about me, there aren't many people left who know about it.

—How do you know that?

—Because I have another one, I'll explain later. We'd better leave now. At home, that book and you will be safe.

A guard arrives to evict me from the room.

—Why are you holding that book? —He asks me. —They're forbidden for slaves.

The gray-eyed girl steps forward and takes it from me.

—Excuse me, since this slave is now my property, I let him take a look. This book is mine.

When he leaves, I thank her, snatch the book from her again, and put it in my backpack.

—Paris.

—What?

—My name is Paris.