NOTICE: Water Ration Chit 44-B. Hours: 0600-0615. Do not queue early.

I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth, the dream of the grinding machine still humming in my teeth, and saw Elara pressing a cloth to her lips, the red stain spreading like ink in the stagnant water of the quarry lake outside our window. I am Babatunde Asante, thirty-two, a teacher of recycled paper in the flats, and I had promised her we would secure the rare medicinal root the elder Kwame claimed could cure her wasting, though his eyes held a suspicious glint that I had chosen to ignore. The sleet had started again, turning the path to the engine room catwalks into a slick of ice and grime, a physical fact that made every step a negotiation with gravity. I reached for my second-best tool, a rusted wrench I kept for leverage, but my hands were too cold to grip the handle properly.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍​‌‍⁠‌⁠​​​‌​‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍​⁠​‌‍⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍‍​‍‍⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌​⁠‌⁠

Elara coughed again, a wet, rattling sound that seemed to shake the very planks of the floor.

I left the house before the sun had fully breached the smog line, the humidity in the coastal village pressing against my skin like a damp cloth. The inland market was a chaos of noise and smell, a place where the old world’s procedures survived only in the forms we filled out for the council of shifts. I found the merchant, a thin man named Yaw, who was actually the elder’s nephew, and he sold me the paste in a small, unmarked jar. It was not a root, but a processed mixture, thick and pungent, and the price was a debt I did not have the money to pay. I used my knowledge of the trade routes, promising labor on the repair quota, trapping him in a ledger of obligations that forced him to hand over the entire stockpile.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍​‌‍⁠‌⁠​​​‌​‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍​⁠​‌‍⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍‍​‍‍⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌​⁠‌⁠

The sleet turned to a fine mist as I returned, the path deadly underfoot, and I administered the paste to Elara, who initially improved, her breathing easing as the heavy sedative took hold. But I noticed the jar was empty too quickly, and the scent was wrong, too sweet, masking the rot of the underlying infection. I realized then that the elder’s benevolence was a lie, a tool to maintain his status as the sole healer in a world of scarcity. Elara’s condition worsened as the sedative wore off, and she confessed she had known the elder was lying all along, staying silent to protect our family’s reputation, a self-misunderstanding that I had projected onto her.

I returned to the elder’s compound not with violence, but with the ledger of the nephew’s debts, exposing the fraud to the village council in a public hearing. I sacrificed my own moral high ground, forcing the community to acknowledge the truth of the machine that grinds us all. The elder was stripped of his title, his authority dissolved like salt in the rain, but Elara died that night, her body finally free of the sedative but too weak to recover. I held her hand as she faded, understanding that my pursuit of the cure was a futile attempt to control the inevitable.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍​‌‍⁠‌⁠​​​‌​‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍​⁠​‌‍⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍‍​‍‍⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌​⁠‌⁠

In the final entry, I sit alone in the empty house, the last of the paste in a small bowl on the table, its scent still pungent and unchanged.

The town crier of bad news had passed the window earlier, his voice thin and reedy, announcing the vote was bought, the count honest, a bureaucratic certainty that felt heavier than the sleet. I remembered the reading of the will, a scene that must have happened in another life, where the distribution of assets was cold and precise, and the second-best tool was just another item in the inventory. I had wandered off into the history of the colony school, the recycled paper, the forms, only to snap back to the reality of the empty chair. The Osterhagen stub of sealing wax sat on the desk, a fragment of a document I could no longer read, a constant reminder of the distance between our desire for life and the machine of death. I set a meal for one, refilling the chair as if she were still there, the steam rising from the bowl into the cold air.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍​‌‍⁠‌⁠​​​‌​‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍​⁠​‌‍⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍‍​‍‍⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌​⁠‌⁠

I looked at the eighty-four of the Bellfounders' Walk, a number I had once associated with safety, now just a coordinate in a grid of loss. The paste in the bowl was still there, unchanged, a constant reminder of the distance between our desire for life and the machine of death that grinds us all.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍​‌‍⁠‌⁠​​​‌​‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍​⁠​‌‍⁠‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍‍​‍‍⁠⁠‍⁠‌‌​⁠‌⁠