You are standing in the line. The bread is stale. The air smells of wet wool and old fear. You are a man. You were a soldier. Now you are a unit.

"Next."

The voice is flat. It comes from the counter. The clerk does not look up. He cuts a slice of gray loaf. He puts it on the plate.

"Thank you," you say.

"Do not thank me. Take it. Go."

You take the plate. The bread is hard. You walk to the corner. You sit on the cold stone. You begin to eat.

The bread tastes of nothing. It tastes of dust. You chew. You swallow. It is not enough. You are always hungry.

"Hey, soldier."

A woman sits beside you. She is old. Her face is a map of wrinkles. She holds a small tin. It is dented. It is painted blue.

"What is it?" you ask.

"Medicine," she says. "For the head."

"I do not have a headache."

"You do not have a body," she says. "You are only the head. We must feed it."

She opens the tin. Inside is a paste. It is yellow. It looks like fat. It looks like gold.

"Eat," she says.

You hesitate. The law says no. The law says only bread. Only water. Only silence.

"Is it contraband?" you ask.

"It is mercy," she says.

You look at her. Her eyes are dark. They are deep. They hold the past.

"What does it do?"

"It makes you remember," she says. "Before the fence. Before the wire. Before the name was taken."

You look at the paste. Your hand shakes. You are a man of order. You do not break rules. Rules are the wall. Without the wall, there is only the dark.

"Tell me about the wall," you say.

"The wall is the stomach," she says. "It is empty. It is never full. You eat, but you are still hungry. That is the wall."

You take the tin. You hold it. It is warm. It feels alive.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am your mirror," she says. "I am what you will be. If you keep eating the bread."

You feel a chill. You look around. The square is empty. The buildings are gray. The sky is low. It presses down on you.

"Who put you here?" you ask.

"Everyone," she says. "No one. It is the system. The system does not hate you. The system needs you to be hungry. A hungry man does not think. A hungry man does not remember. A hungry man obeys."

You feel anger. It rises in your chest. It is a fire. It is a fist.

"I will fight it," you say. "I will break the wall."

The woman smiles. It is a sad smile. "You have tried before. You will try again. And again. And again. You are a stone in a stream. The water flows around you. It does not break the stone. It only wears it down."

"I am not a stone," you say.

"You are a soldier," she says. "Soldiers are made of stone. That is why they are useful. That is why they are discarded."

You look at the paste. You want to throw it away. You want to obey. You want the safety of the gray bread. But the hunger is worse. The hunger is a beast. It gnaws at your bones.

"Tell me the truth," you say. "What is the truth?"

"The truth is that there is no outside," she says. "There is only the square. There is only the bread. There is only the hunger. The golden paste is not food. It is memory. Memory is poison. It kills the hunger. But it kills the man too."

"I don't understand."

"You will understand. When you eat it. You will see the face of the one who made the wall. It is your own face."

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. You walk to the edge of the square. You look at the fence. It is high. It is strong. It is silent.

"Wait," you say. You turn back.

The woman is gone. The tin is in your hand. The paste is yellow. It glows in the dim light.

You look at the fence. You look at the buildings. You look at the gray sky.

You are alone.

You open the tin. You take a knife. You scoop out a small amount of the paste. It is thick. It is sweet. It smells of honey. It smells of home.

You put it on your tongue.

It is not bitter. It is warm. It spreads through your mouth. It goes down your throat. It burns.

You close your eyes.

You are in a field. The grass is green. The sun is bright. You are young. You are free. You are holding a woman. She is laughing. Her hair is brown. Her eyes are blue.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am you," she says. "I am the part of you that they cut away."

You reach for her. Your hand passes through her. She is smoke. She is light.

"No," you say. "No."

The field disappears. The sun goes out. You are back in the square.

You are on your knees. Your hands are shaking. The tin is empty.

You feel a pain. It is not in your body. It is in your soul. It is the pain of remembering. It is the pain of being real.

You look up. The clerk is watching you. He stands by the counter. He has a clipboard. He is writing.

"Unit 7," he says. "You have deviated."

"I was hungry," you say.

"You were fed," he says. "Now you are sick. You must be treated."

Two men come out of the shadows. They are tall. They are strong. They wear gray coats. They have no faces.

They grab you. They lift you up. You struggle. You kick. You punch.

"Let me go," you say. "Let me go."

They drag you to the center of the square. They pin you down. Your face is pressed against the cold stone. The taste of dust fills your mouth.

"Stay still," one of them says.

"I will not stay still," you say. "I am a man. I am not a thing."

"Silence," the clerk says.

He walks over. He kneels beside you. He holds a syringe. It is long. It is silver. It is filled with a clear liquid.

"This is the cure," he says. "It will stop the pain. It will stop the memory. It will make you hungry again. And that is good. Hunger is safety."

"I will not take it," you say.

"You have no choice."

He holds your arm. It is strong. It is unyielding.

"I am a soldier," you say. "I do not surrender."

"You are already surrendered," he says. "You have always been surrendered. You are a ghost in a machine. You are a gear that has worn out. We are only replacing you."

He pushes the needle into your arm. You scream. It is a sound of rage. It is a sound of loss.

The liquid goes in. It is cold. It is fast. It spreads through your veins.

The pain stops. The memory fades. The field is gone. The woman is gone. The hunger returns. It is a dull ache. It is a familiar friend.

They lift you up. They put you back in the line.

"Next," the clerk says.

You look at him. You do not know him. You do not know the square. You do not know the fence.

You feel hungry.

"Thank you," you say.

"Do not thank me. Take it. Go."

You take the bread. It is gray. It is hard.

You walk to the corner. You sit on the cold stone. You begin to eat.

The bread tastes of nothing. It tastes of dust.

But you are happy. You are safe. You are empty.

The sun sets. The sky turns purple. The lights come on. They are dim. They are weak.

You finish the bread. You hold the plate. You look at your hands. They are steady. They are calm.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You leave the square.

You do not look back.

You do not remember.

You are a man. You are a unit. You are a ghost.

You are hungry.

You will always be hungry.

And that is enough.