The kettle sings. It is a thin, reedy sound. It cuts the air of the infirmary like a blade.

"Boil it," I say. My voice is a dry leaf scraping stone.

Thomas looks at me. He is young. His face is pale. The light from the window is grey. It falls on his hands. They are shaking.

"Mr. Holloway," he says. "The doctor is coming. In ten minutes."

"Let him come." I pour the water. The steam rises. It smells of iron. It smells of rust. "Boil it, Thomas."

He moves. He is clumsy. He knocks the cup. The ceramic clatters. It is a loud sound. It hurts my ears.

We are in the factory. The air is thick. It is full of dust. It is full of smoke. The machines are dead. But the heat remains. It clings to the skin. It is a heavy coat.

I sit on the bench. My legs are long. I am tall. I have been here for three years. Three years in this iron cage. Three years watching the gears turn.

I hold the jar. It is small. It is glass. It is green. Inside is the paste. It is yellow. It is bright. It looks like sunlight. It looks like honey.

I do not eat it. I do not take it. I hold it. It is warm. It pulses. It is alive.

"Are you well, sir?" Thomas asks. He is afraid. I see it in his eyes. He is a good boy. He is like my brother. We are not brothers. But we are family. We have eaten together. We have spoken in the dark. We have shared the silence.

"I am fine," I say.

"You look ill."

"I am ill." I open the jar. The scent hits me. It is sweet. It is cloying. It is the smell of home. It is the smell of the orchard. It is the smell of my mother’s hands.

I close the jar. I put it in my pocket. It is heavy. It weighs me down. It is an anchor. It is a chain.

"Who are you?" Thomas asks.

"I am a man."

"No. Who are you? Before the machine?"

I laugh. It is a short sound. It is sharp. "Who are you, Thomas? Before the shift?"

"I am a boy from Leeds."

"And now?"

"Now I am a worker."

"No. Now you are a shadow."

He stops. He looks at me. His eyes are wide. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying we are not men. We are parts. We are cogs. We are rust."

The door opens. Dr. Whitmore enters. He is tall. He is thin. He wears a white coat. It is clean. It is stark. It is a mask.

"Mr. Holloway," he says. His voice is smooth. It is cold. "We have been waiting."

"I am here."

"Please come with me."

I stand. My knees crack. The pain is sharp. It is real. "No."

Dr. Whitmore’s face changes. It is a subtle shift. A tightening of the lips. A hardening of the eyes. "You are insubordinate."

"I am free."

"You are a patient. You are in our care. This is a place of healing."

"It is a place of death."

He steps forward. He is close. He smells of soap. It is a chemical smell. It is clean. It is dead.

"Take the jar," he says.

I do not move.

"Take it, Holloway. It is medicine. It is for you."

I look at him. I see the hunger in his eyes. It is not hunger for food. It is hunger for power. It is hunger for control. He wants to consume me. He wants to eat my soul.

"I will not give it to you."

"You will. Or I will take it. And you will suffer."

I smile. It is a small smile. It is bitter. "You think you can take it? It is not a thing. It is a self. You cannot take a self. You can only kill it."

He frowns. He is confused. He is a doctor. He understands bodies. He does not understand ghosts.

"Take it," he says again.

I pull the jar from my pocket. I hold it out. My hand is steady. The paste swirls. It is bright. It is gold.

"Look at it," I say. "Do you see it? It is beautiful."

Dr. Whitmore looks. His eyes widen. He leans in. He is drawn to it. He is a moth. The light is the flame.

"Give it to me."

"No."

I put the jar back in my pocket.

He strikes me. It is a blow. It hits my cheek. It is hot. It is red. I taste blood. It is metallic. It is iron.

"Thomas," I whisper. "Run."

Thomas does not run. He stands. He is frozen. He is terrified.

"Run!" I shout.

Dr. Whitmore grabs my arm. He is strong. He is angry. He drags me toward the door. The iron door. The heavy door.

We pass the machines. They are silent. They are watching. The gears are still. The pistons are still. But the heat is there. It is rising. It is a wave.

We reach the door. Dr. Whitmore holds it open. He pushes me out.

"Get him," he says. To the guards.

Two men step forward. They are large. They are silent. They wear grey. They are shadows.

I fall to the ground. The concrete is cold. It is hard. It is unforgiving.

I look up. I see Dr. Whitmore. He is smiling. It is a cruel smile. It is a triumphant smile.

"Where is it?" he asks. "Where is the medicine?"

I look at Thomas. He is standing in the doorway. He is watching. He is afraid. But he is there. He is my brother. He is my anchor.

I look at the jar in my pocket. I can feel it. It is warm. It is pulsing.

I understand now. It is not medicine. It is not food. It is not a thing. It is a choice.

I choose.

I pull the jar out. I hold it high. I look at Dr. Whitmore. I look at the guards. I look at Thomas.

"This is my life," I say. "It is my self. It is my freedom."

I open the jar.

I pour it.

I pour it on the ground.

The paste hits the concrete. It is bright. It is gold. It spreads. It is a pool of light.

Dr. Whitmore screams. It is a high sound. It is a shriek. He lunges forward. He tries to catch it. He tries to save it.

But it is already gone. It is soaked into the stone. It is gone. It is lost.

I close my eyes. I feel the weight lift. It is gone. The anchor is gone. The chain is broken.

I am light. I am air. I am nothing.

Thomas grabs my hand. His hand is warm. It is real. He pulls me up. He pulls me away.

We run.

We run into the night. The air is cold. It is fresh. It is clean.

We run into the city. The lights are bright. The streets are wet. The people are moving. They are alive.

We run until we cannot run. We fall into an alley. It is dark. It is quiet.

I lean against the wall. I breathe. My chest is heaving. My heart is pounding.

Thomas stands before me. He is panting. He is wet. He is shivering.

"We did it," he says.

"No," I say. "We lost it."

He looks at me. He is confused. "What did we lose?"

"Nothing," I say. "We lost everything."

I look at my hands. They are empty. They are clean. They are free.

I look at the sky. It is dark. It is full of stars. They are small. They are distant. They are cold.

But they are there.

I feel a hunger. It is deep. It is old. It is in my bones.

I look at Thomas. He looks at me.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

He nods.

"I do not know," I say. "I have forgotten how to eat."

He takes my hand. He squeezes it. It is tight. It is warm.

"We will find food," he says. "We will find a place. We will find a life."

I look at him. I see his face. It is young. It is hopeful. It is alive.

I see myself in him. I see the man I was. I see the man I might be.

I do not know who I am. I do not know who I was. I do not know who I will be.

But I am here.

I am free.

The hunger remains. It is a ghost. It is a shadow. It is a part of me.

But I am not it.

I am not the jar. I am not the paste. I am not the machine.

I am a man.

I am a brother.

I am free.

The night is long. The cold is sharp. But we are together. We are alive.

We walk. We walk into the dark. We walk into the unknown.

We walk.

The hunger is quiet. The hunger is still. The hunger is waiting.

But I am not afraid.

I am not afraid.

I am free.