December is coming, and it's going to be hot. Even though it's never cold in the Provinces, I sometimes wish it would rain. The sound, taste, and feel of raindrops make everything more colorful. December is coming, and everything is getting tighter. The Presidential Elections are coming up, as well as the final of the Football Year-End Cup. Paris needs me for a trip and is preparing me. All the Provinces have two important events, and I have one. I'm in turmoil. Nervous. Soccer and politics move the world. They give rise to money and slavery. A wheel that never stops turning. That's how it all works.

Paris is absent again for several days. Some evenings, Edgar comes to pick her up in his airmobile. He always stands on the threshold, waiting while Paris finalizes the details before leaving. I don't go down to greet him because I can hit him. It would be difficult to get out of that situation. The Scofield family controls the provinces as much as or more than the president. I play a video game that teaches me how to handle a gun. I'm on mission twenty-five, and it's fun. I've also made progress with Mr. Stonecraft. He visits me because of the electric bracelet, which he lets me take off for six hours a day. We've talked a bit, and I know he feels guilty about his wife leaving. He's also helping his daughter, but I think he's doing it for himself. He forgave himself by giving Paris what he couldn't give his wife.

—Things used to be different, Eric. You had something to fight for. To get ahead. —He takes off the bracelet and starts fiddling with it.

—There's your daughter, Paris.

—There she is. I can't imagine my life without her. But I'm talking about people like you... —He makes a strange face. He won't say the word “slaves”.

—Slaves. —I finish his sentence.

—People like you, Eric. It used to be different. They were more free.

—How could that be?

—They wanted to go against their fate. To face it. What I was telling you at the beginning was to fight.

—Mr. Stonecraft, do you think a slave does like being a slave?

—Of course not, Eric. I don't know how to explain it to you.

—When you find the right words.

—No, Eric, when I remember them without it hurting.

He walks away and leaves me with major mental chaos. I didn't understand his last sentence, and I don't pay much attention to it either. What burns me is that thought about us, the slaves. I didn't want to be harder on him because, above all, I owe him respect. But I can't agree that the slaves themselves are to blame for slavery. In any case, he is innocent. Everything has been modified by the Provinces, the Companies, and the landowners, starting from the Screen, so that even the slaves think that they are responsible for their situation. That by working, they will commute their punishment and all the sins committed. Worst of all, I have come to swallow that shit too.

—You are not like the others. You want to be free. That defiant look you have... I haven't seen it in someone for a long time. —He concludes when he comes back.

Does Mr. Stonecraft want to tell me something with his enigmatic thoughts? Maybe that's what he means, that I have stopped believing that we are slaves by nature. I hope it is that and not something else.

Paris is staying home after lunch today. She challenges me to play a game of video game with her as a partner, and since we're good at it, we go through two more missions. When the sun stops itching like it does on December afternoons, Paris asks me to join her.

—Diego Marquez has some new material for me—she says. The way I look at her, she knows I don't understand anything, so she adds in a whisper. —The book smuggler I told you about.

The smuggler's market happens to be several miles from home, just outside the city of New America. It is located inside the boardwalk, where the sea abruptly ends. The sand suddenly turns into larger and larger boulders until it forms a cliff that is the beginning of a series of mountains that mark the natural boundary of the city. In the shelter of the cliff, with the end of the sea as a witness and with the backdrop of the mountains, a large market appears, crowded with stalls and people.

—What's the matter with you? You've been quiet all the way.

I've been wanting to ask Paris something for several minutes, but I don't dare. Let's go into the market. I stop a few meters away from him and sit down on one of the last benches on the promenade.

—I would like to ask you something. —She sits down next to me, tucking her hair behind her ears because the wind blows it into her face. She nods and waits for me to speak.—At the risk of not knowing anything, I want to know how you're doing with the work, that is, what you've found out. About the Collapse...

—The truth, Eric, not much. Very little.

—But you work a lot. You put in so many hours...

—That doesn't mean I'm making progress. The information I have is very little. I look everywhere I can, but dealing with the Collapse is not an easy thing to do. That's why it's so important for me to come to these kinds of places or the trips that we have scheduled....

—I understand. Can't you tell me anything? —We got up and continued walking towards the market.

—The first fifty pages are an essay on how the Provinces were formed and a brief analysis of history. The other fifty just reflect what I think about the Collapse, the theories that have existed about it, and also about how important it would be to study it. —As he says this, he turns his gaze towards me.

—So, not much...

—Almost nothing. I know that every historical crisis has its causes and consequences: social, economic, political, cultural... but I can't fit anything into this scheme. I need more information.

Paris' face is saddened, and my thoughts are saddened. Paris may never come up with any clue that treats the Collapse as anything more than a mystery and anything more than a taboo subject. It worries me because he may spend his life searching for something he won't find.

We cram into a multitude of small stalls, some formed with wooden beams, others with iron or aluminum bars, always leaving a large counter behind which the vendors stand. Shoppers come at this time of the afternoon in large numbers. Most do so for dinner because there are many food stalls, something that gives a unique smell to the market. Chickens and fries, hamburgers, hot dogs...fast food in general. I also see candy stalls that catch my attention. The other merchandise for sale is second-hand clothes, old style clothes, aged, made of fabrics not as good as Paris dress or my t-shirt, for example. There are traditional and handmade toys for boys and girls and electrical spare parts for technological products, of which there are also some, but they are second or third-hand. Some objects are familiar to me, others I have never seen in my life.

—Almost all the stalls belong to former slaves or very humble free people. So, it's not all bad about slavery, Eric, but the social situation of many people who are not slaves.

I understand and share what she means. That also says something about her, and that is that she is not comfortable in this place because she has a higher economic status. Whatever she says, I would rather choose to starve to death being free than to be a slave and feed on the owner's leftovers.

As we go along, the tide of people is greater, and we have to dodge several children who, barefoot, are running from one stall to another. I look at some faces, intending to recognize someone, casually, but nothing. I have always lived so closed in that I don't know many people. What does make my skin crawl is the sight of several slaves following their owner. I recognize them because they wear the same bracelet as me. They are domestic slaves, city slaves.

—You see, even the humblest people have their elites. —Paris has also noticed the slaves. Surely, these slave owners were former slaves or had suffered great hardship. But now they had prospered and, to look like the truly privileged, they owned slaves.

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—We have the enemy at home. —I say it with anger and sadness. We, too, are capable of doing to our equals what others have done to us.

—They are free, Eric, but they are poor.

Paris grabs my hand to guide me. Many faces, many sounds, and many colors, and I can lose myself among them. I close my eyes and press my fingers against hers. If I force my mind, it feels like I'm on the plantation, holding Sophie's hand. But I'm not. I'm at the end of a huge market where people who are not slaves are trying to satisfy their needs, regardless of the quality of the products. Paris has brought me to a stall made of wood and aluminum, whose counter, very wide, has a variety of interesting products: handmade products, empty glass jars, others full, clothes, food, books, antiques such as very deteriorated pens that will not paint anything, rusty pendants, others that glisten in the light...

—I don't think anyone will buy these—I point to the antiques and decorative items—they can't be of any use to them. Who throws away money they don't have on something they can't get any use out of?

—Me, Eric. Me. Those who can throw that money away because they have plenty of it. They are very old objects, Eric, at a good price. They give another luster to your house, to your room. I don't know. Who has dollars rules, and in the Provinces and their style, no one interferes. —I assimilate his words and remember that Greg Gordon was constantly changing the decoration and style of his mansion. —And don't think that Diego Marquez doesn't make his good bucks selling things like this to...the right people.

—To those of you with money. —I point.

—They're valuable.

—Even if they don't work.

—They're worth more for what they represent than for the function they may serve. They are memories of the past. And that is only valued by those who possess culture...

—And these humble people don't have it because they live more concerned about surviving one more day. And so on until they die.

—Exactly. Eric, some pieces of this kind can be worth thousands of dollars. Diego is an expert in finding these objects.

—They certainly don't know how to waste the money that falls out of their pockets. —I pity those who are as poor or as enslaved as I am.

A man of small stature and dark complexion, even more accentuated by a week-old beard, opens his arms, and I see his pupils dilate when he sees Paris behind the counter of his stall. She must be no more than fifty.

—Miss Stonecraft, what speed! Nice to see you again. —She shifts her gaze to me because Paris hasn't let go of my hand yet. He does so suddenly.

—Diego, this is Eric...

—Her dirty slave. —I say, smiling and raising the hand in which I'm wearing the bracelet, seeing that Paris gets a knot in her stomach as she doesn't know how to introduce me.

I squeeze Diego Marquez's hand, and he gestures for us to go to the back room.

—Diego, son, you take care of the merchandise for a second. —He orders his son, who must not be more than fifteen years old.

The back room, located at the back of the stall, is a real campsite. Behind each stall, there is a whole city full of caravans four-wheeled pneumatic vehicles that move by touching the ground. They are poor, they can't pay for a house in the city, and they can't afford airbikes or airmobiles. Diego opens the back doors of his big four-wheeled van in which he stores the goods and ushers us in. My eyes become accustomed to the dim darkness, and I see piles of boxes with strange objects.

—Where do you get all that stuff? —I ask, looking at some antique pieces that are difficult to catalog.

—I thought I should be asking the questions. —He answers dryly.

—Excuse him, he hasn't been home long... —Paris apologizes. I look at her as if to ask her: why are you doing that?

—The sea, son. —He answers as she shuffles through a box of books. I remember what Paris told me about the smuggler who would dive into the water and find everything. Maybe that's true, or maybe he's one hell of a con man. —The sea and its depths have many hidden secrets, but few sailors dare to discover them, especially in this area where the world ends. Or so they say.

Diego takes out two books and hands them to Paris.

—They are very old. One is published a few years after the Collapse. The other is undated. They might be useful to you.

Paris caresses them as if they were his children. She admires them for a few seconds, rapt. If she looked at Edgar Scofield like that, I would believe her when she says she loves him. But she doesn't. She hands me the two books as she comes out of her hypnosis while she reaches into her purse for her wallet, pulling out a hundred dollars and handing it to the smuggler. I see a bit of an exaggeration in the price, but I guess deals are like that on the black market. I quickly try to dissect each book to find out if it is true that they can become so valuable. One has a black cover, which reads: Climate Change? by Frederick K. Wilson. The other, smaller, has very yellow pages and has many numbers drawn on the cover, arranged from top to bottom, entitled The Science They Bequeathed Us by Cassandra Ramsey. I read the titles aloud.

—A hundred dollars for this?

—They might even be worth more, kid. —He turns his gaze to Paris. —See this one? —He takes the book with the black cover from my hand. —It has no year of publication. It has several numbers, but they can't correspond to a specific year. Impossible. It's very rare. That's why I thought it might be what you're looking for.

Paris stares at the spine of the book. What if it's a fake book?

—What about this one? —I raise my other hand, where my mother's handkerchief is knotted.

—By the Goddess, boy, those stars are real! —He approaches me and grips my wrist tightly. His eyes seem to pop out of their sockets.

Paris and I quickly look at each other in surprise. That expression!

—Take it off! —he shouts at me. Diego Marquez, the smuggler, approaches me, takes my hand, and unties my mother's handkerchief. Then he twists my wrist, squeezes it, and turns it around. —Think of the Goddess and show me your mark—he says, looking very upset. Spit dribbles down the corners of his lips, running into his beard.

—What mark? What do you say?

—If you have this handkerchief, which is genuine, tell me where your fucking mark is. Say! —He squeezes my wrist harder, and I can't stand the pain. I kick him in the crotch, snatch my handkerchief, and get rid of him. I notice how the van is thrown off balance as he is.

—This scarf belonged to my mother. Don't touch it again.

—Those stars...

The handkerchief is reddish and embroidered with several small six-pointed stars. I don't know what you mean.

—Liar! Thief! —He accuses me.

—What the hell is he talking about? —I look at Paris.

—I think that's the kind of handkerchiefs Priestesses use in their rituals. —She says.

—They knot them at the back of her neck so that one of the stars is at the level of her mouth. It is another symbol of...of the Goddess. There are a limited number of handkerchiefs embroidered many years ago, and they only belong to the Priestesses. There are a huge number of other imitations, as yours seemed to be. But it is real. So, tell me where you stole it, or you could be in big trouble.

—I didn't steal it! —Paris also looks at me with those gray eyes that seem to accuse me. Do you think I stole it? —It was my mother's!

—It doesn't matter, I'll keep it. —Diego pulls a revolver out of nowhere and points it at me.

—Diego, please, I just want the books as usual. That's all. —Paris pleads while I raise my hands in a sign of helplessness.

—You cannot come to this market and tarnish the name of the Goddess and the Priestess. I'm sorry, Paris, this was not our deal. Whatever it is you're looking for, if you haven't tricked me, I don't give a damn anymore, not for all the dollars in the world. Give me that sacred handkerchief, and we'll call it even.

—It's my mother's!

—Liar! Thief! Give it to me!

Paris looks sad and bows her head, a sign for me to do as the smuggler says. My pride won't let me give up, but I have a gun pointed at my head, threatening to take my life. Wouldn't that be a way to freedom? No. I can't give up my mother. I can't. But if I don't give her the damn scarf, Paris will have to give up her dream. And I'm his only hope.

—It's okay. I surrender. I give up. Take it.

I slowly move my hand, with the handkerchief, closer to his. When he goes to grab it, I grab it tightly and manage, with my other hand, to pull the revolver away from the path of my head, struggling with the smuggler and his gun. I beat him in strength, but he uses his elbow and hits me in the jaw with it, after which I taste blood. I lose my balance and fall among the crates that litter the back of the van. Diego approaches me, revolver in hand, breathing hard, choking from the effort.

—I don't want to see you anymore. I'll kill you. —He says to me. —As for you, Miss Stonecraft, I don't want you to come back here...

Paris appears behind Diego and smashes him over the head with a crystal vase, one of his antiques. The smuggler falls roundly to the floor. Paris holds out a hand.

—Let's go! —she shouts.

I take my handkerchief and Paris' books, and we get out of the van. We wave slyly to Diego's son and run up the market.

—Why did you do that? —She says to me when we are on the promenade, far away from the market. Paris is very upset.

—I couldn't give up the only thing I have left of my mother! I couldn't! —I get upset, too.

—You could have been killed!

She screams just inches away from me. She bursts into tears out of helplessness, pouring out her rage at the situation we have just been through. When I try to calm her down, she waves her hands at me. I try to hold her. I put both my hands in her hair and lift her face.

—Look at me. —I whisper to her. —We're all right. You have your books, I have my handkerchief. That guy is not a good friend, and you know it. He might be a scammer. I know that's on your mind, too.

—He was a valuable source of information, Eric!

—I promise to take you wherever you need to go to get as much information as you want. All those books. All of it.

Paris lifts her face to me and raises a hand to my bleeding lip. I, cupping her cheeks, kiss her. She responds to my kiss, but only for a millisecond because she pushes me away forcefully.

—Don't do that again! —And she leaves.