Saying them felt like resistance, small and solid.

There were a few residents who never said anything. I tried to reach them in different ways. Sometimes by whistling an old song, sometimes by remarking on the weather I saw through the thick glass. Each exchange was quick and low. If the Watchmen outside the ward door had any idea I was speaking to these people at all, I would be pulled off duty and sent to the Correction Room. I didn’t want to think of what would happen to the residents. Then again, I wasn’t sure what could be worse for them than this. But it was more than just the siren for me; I could be putting my one chance at escape in jeopardy.

I thought saying their names was the most I could do before I decided to risk small bits of conversation. Then I thought that was the most I could do. But by day eight of this new role, I was proven wrong. Because it was on day eight that the letters began.

“Keep the napkin,” Kirby whispered as I gathered his tray from the hatch. “Don’t throw it out.”

He sounded frantic, so I made sure he saw me take the folded napkin and slide it into my breast pocket. I smiled into the darkness, humoring him. Maybe he thought I could use extra tissue. Maybe it was the only gift he could give me. “Thanks,” I said.

At the next door, Marsh waited with his tray all ready to go. When I pulled it out, he whispered, “Wait,” and handed over his napkin, folded between extended fingers.

“Oh.” I squinted. “Uh, okay. Thank you.”

This continued down the line. Not everyone had a napkin for me, but I started taking each tray slower in case they did. Soon, my pants pockets were full; I didn’t keep any in my shirt pocket, since the Watchman might notice. Leaving the corridor, he only remarked, “Took you long enough today.”

“Sorry about that.” I hurried off with my cart of dirty dishes, rattling with movement.

“Don’t start getting lazier than usual.”

“Right. Sorry.” I turned the corner into the kitchen.

It was easy to be unseen in the kitchen even though the space was high and open and sterile—nothing but steel appliances, white walls, and brown people. All the stock was in the huge pantries, behind lock and key. People went out of their way to avoid acknowledging me. But still, I left the napkins in my pockets. I thought about throwing them out—I really didn’t need them—but that might’ve drawn attention. I didn’t want anyone getting in trouble, not the residents for gifting them or me for accepting them. And I didn’t want to be escorted on my rounds. Obviously, my visits were doing some good, names and pleasantries pushed through metal slots like balm. I didn’t want to lose that.

After final cleanup, after I’d gone around my area with a clipboard and checked that each station was spick-and-span, after I’d walked the empty halls back to my room and closed the door behind me, only then did I take out the gifts.