In Case of Rejection

CHAPTER FOUR

It was half past six when Jean returned home, arms full with her work gear and groceries. Matthew was still perched in the living room, sitting by the window with his school things. He had started his homework but was hardly paying any attention.

"Hey Matthew," she called out into the apartment, setting down her things by the front door as she stepped through the threshold. The groceries, she put out on the counter top; then, she began to fit them in with the other things in the fridge.

"How was school today?" She asked, her face illuminated by the pale kitchen light. The world outside was dark now, Matthew looked out the window for a glimpse at the street below. He started to nod.

"It was alright," he said, then adding, "the Arcade was better." Jean shot him a smile over her shoulder.

"How's Olive doing?" She asked.

"Good, same as always," Matthew said. Jean always had to ask after Olive, like she was her own kin, and somehow felt some shred of responsibility. They wouldn't have grown up together if it hadn't been for Jean and Fran -- their friendship spawned by fifteen years working alongside each other and living a floor apart.

"Oh, her poor mother -- poor, poor Fran -- she was sick as a dog at the shop today. Scared us all half to death, to be honest. But I didn't tell on her -- none of us did. We wouldn't risk it," she said, shrugging as she went along. After the onslaught of viral epidemics that came with the start of world collapsing, any sickness thereafter was treated like the plague, in the lower Sectors, especially. Sniffle once and get sent home for two weeks -- without pay.

"Is she okay?" Matthew asked, looking up from his books for a moment to give his mother his full attention. She flitted back and forth, between countertops and her items.

"She's fine. She's been doing poorly, what with all the fires in the surrounding Sectors," she said. She looked down in Matthew's direction, taking notice of his raised eyebrows.

"They're getting worse. The fires, burning up into the twenty-second sector, haven't you heard?" She asked, and he shook his head. Matthew fought the reflexive nervousness that made his heart jump.

"Oh, well, you know, it's that time of year," Jean laughed at her statement, and Matthew winced. Fire season was something of a year-round phenomenon, though it was still a funny concept mid-October.

"Sectors 20 and 22 are struggling to contain them. There's rumors we might evacuate," Jean made a pitiful face, scrunching up her nose. Matthew looked back down into his lap. The thought of Sector 18 going up in flames pained him to imagine. She went on.

"Well, that's what happens when you live in the lowest Sectors, we're all along the Red Zone. It's so easy for everything to go up in flames. A strong wind and we're finished. That's why I can't wait for you to get out of school and go straight up to Sector 3 with your father," she said, pushing a pointed finger up through the air, in the general northern direction.

Matthew's breath caught in his throat. He knew the reality of Sector 3 living, mostly from his secret letters from his father and whatever odds and ends he could pick up at school. At this time of year, Matthew expected letters from his father detailing snowy days. The world was entirely different in the First Five, nestled along the Canadian border, content to be left alone. The people themselves were a different breed. He thought of this time when some governmental officials came down to Sector 18 for a Bot service presentation, when Matthew was ten. The assembly hall at the school was crowded and the kids were loud and obnoxious, but over it all, Matthew couldn't help but notice the way that the people from the first Sectors carried themselves. Tall and stiff. They looked alien almost, with creaseless skin and perfectly-pressed clothing. They were as inhuman as the Bots themselves, and proved to be just as ruthless.