Starting the day with the new mayor's face posing from each corner might be prideful for other citizens... but me.

As I cycle through the dozing city, glinting boards overhead and holographic figures on the sidewalk take turns on distracting me. Even the skyscrapers, still in their dark forms, display his smirking face on their entrances, like he's their mascot. His meaningful gaze suffocates my lungs like a curling snake. Without the abundant plants and flowers at each building and their refreshing scents, I won't be able to pedal any further.

Jorge Zaragoza. Why should he rule Dogson City? He never deserves the throne, after everything he's done.

Unlike the previous mayors, Jorge can't be a puppet. Which makes him more dangerous.

What will happen to Dogson after the scientist-turned-mayor leads?

When I reach Daily Dose's office, rows of bicycles are already parked. The building is bustling with life as workers stream in with lopsided glasses and rashly-combed hair, scurrying past a stand with faded awning and a horde of lining men. I set aside all thoughts of Jorge and scamper to the stand. It doesn't take long for their buzzing voices to trigger my cringe.

"Like I said, he's an excellent choice. How many times should I convince you, Jules?" A skinny, mustard-lipped man sneers at the burly man behind him. Adjusting the newspapers under his armpit, he continues, "He might bring a good difference to us Lowlifes."

"You heard what happened to the Worke couple," Mr. Jules booms out before his eyes flicker to me, shame evident from his blush. "Uh, sorry, Allice."

I slightly nod before making my way to the line. The chatters continue even after a few couriers, including Mr. Mustard-Lips, have left. After Mr. Jules' remark, several eyes linger on me, fearing my wrath.

Not that I still have any.

A burst of chuckle slaps my ears awake. "Why, if it isn't the poor, little boy. How far can you read already?"

I heave a silent breath, refusing to retort. Without Mr. Grease-Hair's comments, my life might be too peaceful for anyone's liking.

As if my life is that peaceful already.

"Stop harassing him." Mr. Jules scowls as he leaves the line with a bundle of newspapers. "It won't get you anywhere."

"But it gets him somewhere, Jules. My daily comments must motivate him. Right?" A bone-cracking slap lands on my shoulder blades.

Thank God, it's my turn already. Mr. Alvaro, Daily Dose's distributor, stares at me with a wrinkled nose, like I'm a worm under his shoe. In his hands are loads of newspapers, still smelling like ink. I accept them with giddy arms.

"Remember," he says, "don't mess up your deliveries." Just like every other day. But before I turn on my heel, he continues, "Sales are booming after Dogson knows how our new mayor loves newspapers. They're returning to the ancient way as well. Live up to our reputation, boy."

The bickering men immediately plunges into ceasefire.

"He works twice as hard as you men." A ghostly smile creeps on Mr. Alvaro's lips, nearly infecting me with it. "Even if he's illiterate, like Mick said, he remembers the addresses—and people's references—in more detail than us all."

With words stumbling in my tongue, I flash him a polite nod. I also allow a small smile at Mr. Jules, who offers a warm grin. And to Mr. Grease-Hair, a flat gaze.

Once I return to the bike, I strap the newspapers on the backseat, under a duffel bag of cleaning equipments. Warmth still fills my insides until the man on the newspapers glare at me. A middle-aged man with more gloom than any widows, yet with more venom than a poison dart frog.

Jorge Zaragoza. Why should he rule over Dogson City? He never deserves the throne, after everything he's done.

Once more, I weave through the roads. More greenish buildings, more fresh air... more tightness in my stomach at the city's celebration.

His influence is everywhere. Even his speech, as I round a corner at Fern Road, blares from a speaker, irking my eardrums and urge my pedaling quicker.

Oriental City Zoo's entrance archway, which always shows ads and their featured attractions, replaces those with their best wishes for Jorge Zaragoza instead. The mucky gray liquid in their sewers represent my mood well. They start to appear from this special day.

What better way to remind the citizens of the gloom they'll be having?

Hours pass by. Houses drift by. The sun crawls to the horizon, exposing streaks of warm light.

I roll my hoodie's sleeves as I enter Treaty Neighborhood. Sweat pours from an invisible bucket above my head. It grows thicker as something tickles my memory.

Jorge Zaragoza lives here. One of these newspapers is going to be his.

Ignoring my frantic heart, I cycle from a driveway to another.

I have to leave quickly.

"So, what do you think of the house's new shade?" a voice greets as I brake at house number seven. The elderly woman's grin remains, even when I fail to return it.

The two-storied house, which was once creamy and pale, is now bright blue. Two baskets of lilies are hung on the porch, basking in the scarce morning breeze. It looks more like a cafe instead of a retired couple's home. However, out of politeness, I say, "Better," handing the crumpled newspaper to Mrs. Ailee.

The lily-delicate woman spends some seconds reading today's headline. "Oh," she shrieks, "my neighbor is a mayor now? How despicable." She spurts more nonsense before scrambling into her house, words like 'malicious' trailing along.

"Oi, boy!"

I flip my head to the servant-calling tone: a man with aging hair, silk gloves clasping around a briefcase big enough for a cobra, more gloom than any widows, and more venom than a poison dart frog.

I snatch a newspaper from the thinning stack, smoothing its wrinkles, and cycle to his driveway. His presence burns my insides more. "Gossiping this early?" He glares like I'm a mosquito biting his knuckles.

Crunching my fist, I stare at the ground, avoiding his eyes. If I ever do, my chained emotions might break loose like feral animals. So I shake my head instead.

"Keep it that way. Or you'll end up worse than your parents." His breath smells like bananas, nauseating.

I step back at the growing sickness. "It isn't wise to threaten around on your ceremony day, Sir." Memories of his past doings surge in my head, but to keep my emotions at bay, I tame them back.

He leans closer. "Your paychecks will be liquidated once your parents are free. A bad word of me out there..." As emphasis, he stomps on a giant ant, shifting his shoes to reveal the flattened, dead insect.

Is he trying to bribe us too?

"It's not a threat. If you're wise, you'll only see it as a warning." He pauses to lift his gaze to my back, where familiar honks of an Autodrive Pod resounds. The device never visits before. Only important figures can use the rare vehicle, anyway.

Jorge Zaragoza, the framer of my parents, is now Mayor.

🐾

The sun already sinks low behind the towers as I force my squeaking bike home. After countless addresses for newspapers and more for house-cleanings, the day finally ends. After bearing my Highlife clients' chatters to their fellows of hopes to the new mayor, the day comes to an end.

Biliya Republic's national anthem still blasts my ears as speakers and hologram figures repeat it all day. According to the news, Jorge Zaragoza's main ceremony ends before sunset.

Jorge Zaragoza is officially Mayor.

People with ironed outfit swarm the streets like ants around sugar. Whenever a red light stops me and the crowd crosses, I always lower my head down.

Highlife people don't need to lower me more.

Dogson City should've kicked out those disabled and poor long ago. I would've stayed somewhere friendlier already. My parents wouldn't have gone to prison for crimes they never do. No one would've cared about my reading skills more than my performance...

Sore-backed and soaked in sweat, I skid my bike at an alley sandwiched between clouds-reaching towers. Terrain Flats is still full of pebbles and mud. It might return into a swamp soon.

The sixth flat on the left is quiet, as if it's unoccupied. But there are Auntie Morgan and her son, Miro, in it. Where are they?

The door creaks open. A hiss comes from the far end of the stuffed room. Smoke wafts out from a closed pan on the stove, smelling like rotten tomatoes and sewers. Anyone might think this place is deserted, what with these closed blinds and junks. Did an elephant pay a visit?

Beezus. Auntie Morgan should learn how to manage her household.

Grumbling and fuming, I throw my satchel to the floor, approaching the steaming dish as I grab an old napkin. This smells worse than a musk ox's urine at Oriental City Zoo. Under the lid, untidily-chopped onions and charred meat float in a sea of water, not broth.

As if a force drags her down, Auntie Morgan rushes downstairs with tied chocolate hair, upside-down glasses, and pajamas that hasn't changed since last night. "Allice, you're home."

How can she smile, like nothing has happened? How can she, knowing what day it is? Wait, does she still keep track of the days, anyway?

"Our neighbors may think you're poisoning the household." I clean the overflowing liquid from the pan with the napkin while holding my breath.

But instead of countering my words with an apology, she brightens up. Her eyes leave her failed soup, glazing over her flat like a candy-hunting child's. "I'm sorry. There's just... this significant improvement in my latest research. Something that I'm—"

A thunder slashes the universe, cutting her sentence short. My heart leaps in my ribcage. Sunset barely settles, but a storm already interferes?

"Dear, why should there be storm on such a bright day?" A pause. "Anyway, Allice, wait until your hear of my research." Are all scientists this ignorant once science answers their curiosity? "I just covered a controversial topic for our city. No one will like it, that's certain."

Indeed, the smooth scrubs from the sponge against the pan is better to hear.

Another thunder collides against the air. Heavy drips of water begin to splash on the roof, deafening my ears with a continuous chorus though I'm on the lower floor.

A storm so fast? How unnatural.

"Mom, the roof's leaking," a voice squeaks, "your papers are wet."

Auntie Morgan dashes upstairs. An extended shriek stems from above, followed by barks of order and Miro's stumbling on the staircases. "Buckets, napkins, uh..." He halts at my nonchalance. "Allice? Do you know where they are? The ones upstairs are all cracked."

Of course they are. No one would practice hammering on plastic buckets like him. It must be Auntie Morgan's genes' wrongdoing.

At my shaking head, he enters the storage, where tons of experiments and rubbish are spammed into besides the flat's crooks and crannies.

Auntie Morgan's rambling faintly caresses my ears, "My papers... they can't be wet. They won't be solid enough to accuse him..."

A familiar tightness clutches me. Hurrying, I wash the dirty housewares and dry them properly, hoping the storm will pause instead of raging. But nature forbids me from eavesdropping. The hassles of Auntie Morgan and Miro are inferior against the weather.

I almost help them, but my screeching limbs are against it.

Besides, someone said, "Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret." Who knows, maybe after the sky stops tearing up and the situation bobs back to normal, Auntie Morgan will explain her last hearable sentence.

Who's the target in her research?

I'm yet to count the elephants when sleep pulls me to the couch.