The kitchen was on the second floor, accessible only through a locked door, so we had to be buzzed in. It was eerie in there with the noise of water and porcelain and steel but no voices to meet the culinary rhythm. A dozen residents in their pale green uniforms worked cutting vegetables, washing fruit, putting bread dough into the huge wall ovens, sweeping stray crumbs from the floor. They worked with their mouths shut tight, with only their eyes moving around the space, always taking in everything. I searched their faces as much as they searched mine, looking for family, for friends, for possible allies. I knew they were doing the same. I held my breath until I had scanned every last body and I was sure not one person from the resistance camp was there. More than a few of them looked away when they saw I was in grey; two even scowled. It was clear I was not one of them anymore. I was something else entirely. I just wasn’t sure what that was, exactly.

“You are to supervise the isolation meal preparation,” my guide said, handing me a clipboard. “Make sure these residents put them together correctly, with nothing extra, not even one cracker more than the allotted four.” He held up four fingers as if I needed a visual aid to count.

“And then you deliver them to the isolation ward. No talking, no responses, nothing. You can slide the meal trays in and leave. Then, later, collect the empty trays. That’s all.”

I looked at the paper on the clipboard. It was a list of numbers with check boxes beside each one. “What’s this for? To make sure they each get one?”

The guide stabbed at the page with his finger. “First row indicates that they received their meal. Second column indicates they ate it.”

“Some people don’t eat them?”

He sniffed. “Some people think the best way through this is to just wither away and die. As if that option is open to them. Those are the ones who get taken to the Feeding Rooms. Not a place I’d want to end up.”

A teenager walking behind us coughed into his bent elbow. A cough that sounded like the word traitor. Two men operating a bread oven giggled into their gloved hands.

The guide spoke louder. “And keep an eye on your crew. Any disobedience at all, and they are headed to the Correction Room.” The men went quiet and turned back to the control panel set in the wall. “Got it?”

“Yup.”

He looked at me, waiting. “Oh, uh, yes, sir?” I wasn’t sure of the hierarchy at this point, and I figured it was better to err on the side of deference.

He gave a slight nod, satisfied, and walked back to the main door. When he got there, he bent to talk to a Watchman posted on a stool, reading a paperback. The Watchman stood, placing his open book on the seat, and walked to the resident who had coughed. He grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out the door. The resident didn’t protest; he just dropped his head as he passed the others and, before he got out into the hall, held up a middle finger behind his back. I couldn’t help but think it was specifically for me.