It has been three months since my parents got locked, but today marks my first visit.

Despite OCZ's suggestions to stay home, Auntie Morgan insists on visiting them. I lower my woolen beanie to avoid the demeaning stares Highlife people might throw. After all, Auntie Morgan's yet-to-heal wound lures attention from the crowd on the streets, though they're lesser than usual.

It's suspicious how Lin-Irene didn't ask where my wounds came from. Did she know?

As we walk on Chrysanthemum Road, with closed clothes stores and half-opened three-starred restaurants on either sides, Auntie Morgan whispers from her shawl, "Do you notice we aren't the only ones hurt?"

I slightly lift my beanie. The smoking old man in front of me is limping, scars stretching from his ear to the nape. A bicyclist, heading to our opposite direction, has blood pooling on his shoulder. He grimaces like there's a jar of mustard in his mouth.

The clearest similarity we have with them is our modest clothing. Nothing crisp nor polished. Colorful patches glower from Auntie Morgan's shawl and t-shirt. My shoes and socks are still wet from last night. Typical Lowlife.

As we round a corner to Cactus Road, a lesser-known part of the city, Auntie Morgan quietly says, "What I told you was true. OCZ is working with Jorge Zaragoza to get rid of Lowlifes. OCZ was testing their inventions—"

I roll my eyes, suppressing a sigh. "Don't let hatred drives your judgment, Auntie." As pleasing as that sounds, we can't accuse Jorge Zaragoza, a famous anti-Lowlife figure, for the attacks. Though the coincidences are too obvious...

In these parts, the sky is dirtier. Factory smoke stains the morning. The sturdy towers with rooftop gardens are replaced by cheap flats and ancient stores with flower boxes. The road gets narrower, the vehicles lesser, and the sidewalks less polished.

This is where the chasm between Highlife and Lowlife community begins.

Most stores are closed too, but with huge differences from the ones before. The glass displays, along with their contents, litter the sidewalk. Awnings torn and crushed, holes marring the fabric.

The animals attacked the whole city last night. But why, though these stores aren't far from each other, have different results?

"How far are we?"

"We'll be there in minutes." She warily eyes our fellow passersby, as if one of them is ostrich-headed. "I regret going out. What if we're attacked by an animal..."

Beneath the horizon, lies a wasteland with lots of bright panels on the ground. But it's no secret that the condition doesn't represent the mood in prison.

The thirteen-year-old incident tickles my forehead. Fingers aiming for my face from their glass-walled cells, voices yelling, "Murderer!". Tears staining their red faces. Anger twisting their tongues.

Even after thirteen years, my heart still thumps like a war drum at the sour memory.

The illusion ends once we face the officers, who look like doppelgängers. Silence consumes the area, like there isn't any uncaged animal wandering around.

"Hi. We're here for Mr. and Mrs. Worke." Auntie Morgan gives a shaky toothed smile.

The red-faced officer huffs, blowing a loose black strand off his nose. The other frowns deeply.

Are we that disgusting, even for fellow Lowlifes like them?

Shutting myself from their dialogue, I focus on the solar panels in the wasteland's center. There's a circular opening slightly before, big enough to fit two to three people. I have to tiptoe to view the spiraling downward steps within.

Moments later, after sunlight soaks our outfit with sweat and Auntie Morgan stops firing out her fake politeness, steady trampling echoes from the entrance hole. Marching out are two stern officers with a belt of armors on their uniforms. The beckon of their heads urge us to trail behind them.

The steps down are slippery, as if smudged by oil. Dim white lamps protrude from the walls, being our guide besides the two officers.

The stairs almost end when I follow Auntie Morgan's eyes to one of the officers. A transparent Airphone crackles in his left hand, its screen blinking rapidly in the dim surroundings.

So are they allowed to use their phones during work?

We reach a corridor, lit by the glass panels above. The floor is stark white, its edge on the opposite side almost unseen. Six glass elevators line up at our right. It looks like a shopping center, added with savage cries and loud banging.

The thirteen-year-old memory surges back to life, dizzying my steps to the elevator.

Before it can leave my fuzzy brain, the elevator doors zing open, gulping us down to the canteen.

🐾

"They've gone too far, Marion." Auntie Morgan's fist collides against the wooden table, drawing attention to our group. "You should see what they did to Miro. His scars still bleed this morning."

"Shush, Morgan." Mom shreds chunks of her dried lips, quickly glancing at a pair of officers at the dusty glass doors. "We're already three months away from freedom. Your foul-mouthing will add more. And if you're that worried"—she darts her gaze back and forth—"you wouldn't leave him alone."

Dad and I aren't involved in the sisters' debate. I stare at the blank, white walls and yawn. Dad keeps apologizing to other prisoners, who nod back, with snickers.

He looks a lot older since three months ago. He still has the smooth brown hair he passed on to me, though some speckles of grey jut out. His coffee-like eyes droop and shrivel. His skin clings tighter to his bones.

"Allice." I look up to meet his patient smile. "How are you?"

"Fine." Why is it difficult to spurt out something now, when I used to share everything with him? "You look older. You should get a cut."

He chuckles like a duckling. "I will, once I'm out." He absently scratches his overgrowing brown beard. "It's bad here. Worse than when we all worked for the bakery, singing that miserable jingle in the middle of the road with sandwich boards..."

Heat creeps to my cheeks at the lame memory.

The pain is still in his gaze—must've been there since he realized Jorge Zaragoza had kicked his ass. "Worse once I heard that news. Marion cussed like a punk. I sang the shitty jingle all day, changing the lyrics. 'All my miseries shall end with Jorge's death...'"

"That's like a necrophilia singing."

He grins, glancing at Auntie Morgan. "Now you're smarter, huh? I don't even know what that is."

I stutter, "She taught me that days ago. It's... someone who obsesses over corpses, Dad. And uh, I still can't read and write, so I'm not smart." The tension returns at the mention of my illiteracy. His smile dims into a frown. After all, he and Mom were too busy working since I was a toddler.

Rice has become porridge, after all.

Auntie Morgan wags her fingers to Mom's crumpled face. "You should hear of my research. I found something that might be useful. Something that will tempt you two to not avoid this situation anymore."

Dad grumbles under his breath, "Why didn't she give up the shrimps, but anger a zookeeper instead? Is she trying to tame them and form an army..." His widened eyes are trained to somewhere behind me. I'm still turning my head when a cold tap lands on my shoulder.

Shocking platinum blinds my eyes. Three officers, all bulky and armed, stand behind her. Silence sweeps over the canteen. A few steps behind the group is the officer who fussed with his phone earlier, and heat crawls to my temples at how everything makes sense.

But what are they doing here? Is this about her last words from last night?

I try to mask my shock with a scowl, but it ends up being a pathetic smile instead.

"You and Mrs. Sweds are taken in for questioning at OCZ's Office."

"Excuse me?" My heartbeat pulsates in my brain, increasing the volume of everything in my ears. Dad's string of curses, Mom's soft breath, Auntie Morgan's rapid questions...

This is not happening.

"You will be questioned for hindering Ornamental City Zoo's staff. You see, there was a Mantis shrimp in your flat. One of the rooms upstairs smelled like mud, though it only existed downstairs. Nothing to worry about"—she sends a curt smile—"just mandatory questions."

"Dragging my son and sister-in-law to your office just for getting attacked?" Dad scoffs, calmness melting from his face. "It wasn't their fault your shrimps got to their flat."

With a bored sigh, Lin-Irene faces Dad. "Your son lied to me, Mr. Worke. And your sister-in-law wasn't in the flat last night, with no clear whereabouts." And with distaste in her eyes, she addresses both Auntie Morgan and I. "A search warrant is being processed for your flat. If you cooperate, nothing bad will happen."

"I refuse this silliness." Auntie Morgan kicks herself off the seat. "Your questioning is apeshit. A waste of—"

In the nick of time, a grubby hand reaches my elbow, yanking me to the officers' midst. Auntie Morgan's protests ring through the air like a gong.

With this girl at my back and an officer at my front, how big is my escape rate?

Dad and Mom are gone. The other prisoners gather around, bewildered. As Lin-Irene looks at me, a tilted smile decorates her face. How dare she go to this length? She's only a super-shady zookeeper. But is it stupid not wanting to punch her yet—

"Get off my son!"

Dad appears, a wrench in his hand. He lands a blow on an officer's forehead, but countered by meaty biceps. Kicks and punches are exchanged between the two.

Buzzes soon resound behind me, coming from Lin-Irene's taser rod. Blue sparks dance around the tube's end, spitting electricity. Twisting her equipped wrist awkwardly, I slam my back to her torso. Her free hand strangles my neck, cutting the air as her nails sink into my skin. It's like being bitten by a stray dog.

In a blink, a warm grip tugs me away. "Come on!" Mom's wild olive hair flies behind her. I swing my burning legs, blindly following her lead.

Instead of taking the elevators, Mom guides me through the ascending hallways, made of glass. Chaotic cries break loose from my sides as glass walls, each with a prisoner of their own, slam their hands against it. The air smells of sweat, my ears banging with footsteps and another set of commands from the canteen.

"What are you doing?" I ask between pants as more hallways and ascensions shift under my feet. The sunlight from glass panels on the prison's roof glare brighter; we're near the top floor.

At last, we skid to a halt on a glass wall with six elevators sitting next to it. There's an opening half their size.

Mom tugs the handle open, her face a mixture of panic and worry. "This is a garbage funnel. Only garbage is put in here; no offense." She smiles sadly. "It'll take you somewhere. Be careful. I haven't been in before, but it's the safest—"

Shouts and bellows blare from the glassy hallways below. "He's escaping!"

I look back at Mom's teary eyes. "But what about you... the others?" I can't stop my voice from shaking. "What... I do?"

"Don't let our trust go to waste," she says, helping me into it. "Morgan is too emotional. You're calmer." I clutch the edges of the opening as my legs flail around in nothingness. What's going to happen to me? "Never meet me here again, Allice. Stay safe. Now, go."

As a weird stench stabs my nose and the light fades from sight, I hope wings will grow out of my shoulder blades, saving me from hitting whatever's down there headfirst.

Now, what's going to happen to me?