The Food Distro is a giant warehouse so far on the edge of the City that it butts against the steel walls that encase the Feeder Level. Food distribution is automatic—or it’s supposed to be. When I get to the huge steel-and-brick building, the manager, Fridrick, has chained the doors shut. He stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyes trained on me, waiting for a fight.

Everything in me tenses—my fists, my teeth, my eyes.

“What’s going on?” I growl. The crowd that had gathered around Bartie and me now presses against me and Fridrick—and it is even bigger than before. Marae and the Shippers try to move around the edges, urging people to leave and let us take care of the problems, but they’re not listening. Instead, the crowd is growing.

“I’ll distribute food manually,” Fridrick says. “I’ll make sure everyone gets their fair share.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s keeping the food for himself!” a woman shouts.

“It’s not right!”

“Let’s break down the doors!”

“Calm the frex down!” I bellow, spinning on my heel and glaring at the crowd. They don’t calm—but at least they quit shouting. “Now,” I say, turning back to Fridrick, who’s been in charge of Food Distro since before I was born. “What’s the problem with food distribution?”

“No problem,” Fridrick says. “Once everyone leaves, I’ll begin distributing the food.”

I cast a doubtful look at the chain on the doors.

“He’s only going to give food to some of us!” a deep male voice calls out from the crowd.

“For the ones who deserve it!” comes another voice.

I risk another glance behind me. Marae and the Shippers are all directly behind me, keeping the crowd from surging forward. There’s at least two hundred people here, maybe more. They move in waves, not as individuals, and the waves are pressing closer to Fridrick and me.

“You don’t own the food,” I say to Fridrick. Now I speak loudly on purpose, intending everyone to hear.

“I do.” He glares at me.

“You can’t dictate who gets to eat and who doesn’t,” I shoot back.

“The storage levels are low.”

I know they are.

“So what do I do?” Fridrick demands in a mocking tone. “Give everyone less? Or do what should be done—just distribute food to the ones who’ve earned it?”

Angry shouts, cheers of agreement, curses and screams erupt around us.

“There’s enough for regular distro for several more weeks. After that, we can discuss rationing.”

Fridrick narrows his eyes. “I ain’t feeding the ones who won’t work.”

“Everyone works!” I shout, exasperated.