I pause and politely wait. Unless their proposition includes getting me out of here, there is nothing they can say to get me interested in any kind of business idea. But since they aren’t moving out of my way, I don’t have much of a choice but to listen.

“The crowd loved you,” says Dum.

“How about a repeat performance?” asks Dee. “Say, for a thirty-percent take of the winnings?”

“What are you talking about? Why would I risk my life for a measly thirty percent of the winnings? Besides, money doesn’t buy you anything anymore.”

“Oh, it’s not money,” says Dum. “We just use money as a shortcut for the relative value of the bet.”

His face becomes animated like he’s genuinely fascinated by the economics of post-apocalyptic gambling. “You put your name and the bet you’re making on, say, a five-dollar bill, and that just tells the bookie that you’re willing to bet something of greater value than a dollar bill, but less than a ten dollar bill. It’s the bookie who decides who gets what and who gives what. You know, like maybe someone loses a quarter of his rations and gets extra chores for a week. Or if he wins, then he gets someone else’s rations to add to his, and someone else scrubs the toilet for him for a week. Get it?”

“Got it. And the answer’s still no. Besides, there’s no guarantee I’ll win.”

“No.” Dee gives me an over-the-top used car salesman’s smile. “We’re looking for a guarantee that you’ll lose.”

I burst out laughing. “You want me to throw a fight?”

“Shhh!” Dee looks around dramatically. We’re standing in the shadows between two buildings, and no one seems to notice us.

“It’ll be great,” says Dum. His eyes shine with mischief. “After what you did to Boden, the odds will be so far in your favor when you fight Anita—.”

“You want me to fight a girl?” I cross my arms. “You just want to see a cat fight, don’t you?”

“It’s not just for us,” says Dee defensively. “It’ll be a gift to the whole camp.”

“Yeah,” says Dum. “Who needs television when you’ve got all that water and laundry suds?”

“Dream on.” I shove through them.

“We’ll help you get out,” says Dee in a sing-song cadence.

I stop. My brain runs through half a dozen scenarios based on what he just said.

“We can get the keys to your cell.”

“We can distract the guards.”

“We can make sure no one checks on you until morning.”

“One fight, that’s all we ask.”

I turn to look at them. “Why would you risk treason for a mud fight?”

“You have no idea how much I’d risk for an honest-to-God mud fight between two hot women,” says Dee.