The Golden Compass
The food tastes like wet cardboard soaked in bleach, and I know it because I’ve been eating it for twelve years, but Vane says it’s different now. "You’re not eating," he said, his voice flat, cutting through the hum of the ventilation shafts. "It’s bad," I replied, pushing the tray away. The plastic clattered against the metal table, a sharp, ugly sound that made the other guards in the yard...
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