We haven’t had working phones for weeks, and it’s sometimes hard to imagine things going on as normal—or as normal as can be—in the outside world. If anyone were to come and tell me a year had passed since this whole mess started, I would believe them in a heartbeat.

The line continues to grow, and it makes me feel restless, this many people in one place.

In the distance, church bells echo, and as if on cue, our line moves. The line adjacent to us is half a pace slower. A girl clutching a bag nearly drops it when she rushes three steps forward.

She sees me look at her, and color rises to her cheeks.

It becomes a dance for all of us. A few steps forward and wait. A few steps more. We crawl closer to the corner, and with every step we take, my heartbeat kicks up a notch. I want to be able to flap my hands, or pace, or tell Leah what’s going on. Anything to distract me from the restlessness building up inside of me.

Nia has found her own way to cope. She crumples the piece of paper between her fingers, straightens it, and does the same all over again. If I lean in close enough, I can hear her whisper the words we agreed on.

On my left, the girl with the bag reaches into her pocket and produces a similar card to the one the guy in front of us has, and my breath lodges in my chest.

I elbow Nia. “I think they have ID of some sort.”

She pales. “We don’t.”

“I know. Maybe we’ll get it if we make our case?”

“If we don’t, Emerson has a problem too.”

“Yeah.”

Emerson hasn’t joined a line yet. They’re holding back to keep a good distance between the three of us so no one can accuse us of colluding.

The nervous excitement makes way for ice-cold fear. It makes every step feel like a mile, and as the time crawls by and the sun arcs across the sky, the only option I have is to follow Nia’s lead and go through our text line by line.

Until we’re there.

The soldier behind the table does not show any recognition. He doesn’t look like he was at the barricade when we first escaped. But he raises his head and holds out a gloved hand. “Ration card please.”

Nia clears her throat—and clears it again. “Sir, we’re from the Hope Juvenile Treatment Center, several miles up the road from here. There are fourteen of us left, less than half of who we were. We’re in dire need of food too.”

With the masks and face shields, it’s hard to tell if the soldier shows any reaction to Nia’s story. But he’s still holding out his hand. “Do you have a ration card?”

“No, sir. We weren’t offered—” Nia clears her throat again. “We weren’t informed of the rations. We weren’t given any cards, but we believe we have a right to—”