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My eighteenth birthday is coming, and with it, conscription. No, I’d rather be in school, learning nothing in a classroom full of chi ldren. Almost everyone looks forward to the first Friday of each month, when work and school end early. In the spring the lower bank is underwater, but right now it’s August, when dehydration and sun sickness stalk the village. The high, stilt buildings for which the village is named (the Stilts, very original) rise all around us, ten feet above the muddy ground. Villagers are too busy shuffling along to notice a pickpocket in their midst. Some paper bills from a man’s pocket, a bracelet from a woman’s wrist-nothing too big. My hands dart in and out, always in fleeting touches. As the throng of people moves, I let myself be taken away by the human current. By the time I’m done, my pockets bulge with trinkets and I’ve got an apple for the road. The merchants are distracted, careless, and it’s easy for me to take whatever I want from their wares. The market deflates, with everyone closing up their stalls for the day.

The air shimmers with heat and humidity, and even the puddles from yesterday’s storm are hot, swirling with rainbow streaks of oil and grease. From my place in the shade it isn’t so bad, but the stink of bodies, all sweating with the morning work, is enough to make milk curdle. It makes the village crowded, and now, in the heat of high summer, that’s the last thing anyone wants. To Mom, Dad, and Morgan, who wanted to know what happened next, even when I didn’t.

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