242 held up his slightly damp hand, using the other to forcefully push away his younger brother, 243, who kept crowding against him.
The last baptism in District 13 had taken place less than five days ago. Coupled with the severe desertification of the city, the air was extremely dry. Consequently, the boy’s short black hair remained fluffy and brittle. With his frantic arching and pushing, he resembled a wild, anxious little beast.
After a moment of stalemate, 242, still holding his hand high, suddenly sensed something was wrong. He lowered his arm and gazed at his open palm. He could feel a trace of moisture, but the reflective water marks had already vanished.
242 stared blankly at his hand for a long time before lying straight back down and closing his eyes.
243 saw his second brother’s actions but showed no reaction. He simply grabbed his brother’s hand and flipped the palm open. In that short span, even the remaining trace of moisture had evaporated into the parched air.
Failing to get what he wanted, the boy flipped his second brother’s hand back and forth several times, whimpering incoherently. Perhaps because he was younger, 243 retained a sliver of childish curiosity compared to his two older brothers.
But only a sliver.
Unable to obtain the water he craved, 243 didn’t ponder where it had come from. In the blink of an eye, he lay back down on the floor like his brothers.
They could hear the voice of the strange little fellow who had suddenly appeared in their room, but habit kept them from realizing it required a response. Residents of District 13 had little to do each day—almost nothing at all.
In this factory-filled Wasteland World, they didn’t even need to labor in the plants, as most ran on automated production. The managers of this world had simply abandoned many precision goods that automation couldn’t produce. They raised countless city residents like benevolent angels; some dwellers lived from birth to death without ever being asked for repayment by the overseers.
Thus, with the time left after eating, most residents simply returned home to sleep. The sustenance they consumed provided just enough energy to survive, but not enough to fuel social activity.
Nearby, Su Ximu pursed his lips. He had thought that once the brother wiped away his tears, they would talk. He figured he was being disliked.
He put himself in their shoes: if a strange kid showed up at his home and kept chattering when he was sleepy and wanted to rest, he might find it annoying too. With that in mind, the little fellow looked toward the door again, finally mustered his courage, and took his first step.
He reached the iron-sheet door and pushed with his hand, only to watch it pass right through the metal. He took two more steps forward, and his entire body phased through.
Fear had clouded his mind before, so Su Ximu hadn’t dwelt on his oddity. Now, with calmer emotions, even a young child could sense the wrongness.
Was he… dead?
He had once nursed an injured little bird, fashioning a nest for it from a small wooden box. But one day, while he was feeding it, the bird went stiff and stopped gently pecking his hand. He had carried it to his grandmother and asked what happened. She told him the little bird had died.
Dying meant going to a place no one else could see. Grandma added that if he behaved and didn’t cry, the bird would be happy knowing that from its spot in the afterlife. The neighbor aunt had also chatted with Grandma about how ghosts were what people became after death. No one could touch ghosts, but ghosts could touch people.
The child tilted his head up at the rows of iron houses. There were very few people outside. Slowly, he squatted, curled into a tiny ball, and hid in the shadow of the eaves.
Oh…
He thought he had guessed right. He really had died and become a ghost. This was the place for the dead. That explained why Grandma, Dad, and Mom were gone.
If Grandma woke up today to find him dead, like when he discovered the little bird, she would be heartbroken.
After ten minutes at the door pondering this deeply philosophical question, Su Ximu wandered around the iron houses to acquaint himself with the afterlife. He might have to stay here forever.
The afterlife felt truly dead. There was no green grass, no little birds, and no people in sight. Everyone was holed up in their little rooms.
After his circuit, the kid in the overalls huffed back to his starting spot. In that brief time, he had grasped not only why he was here, but also why the three brothers merely ignored him without kicking him out. This little room must have been assigned to him in the world of the dead, too. Why else hadn’t he tumbled into a different one?
Passing politely through the wall once more, the little guy greeted his three roommates. “Hello, brothers. I’m back.”
He blinked his big black-and-white eyes, refraining from disturbing the brothers’ feigned sleep. Instead, he mimicked them, claimed a small patch of floor, and lay down. There were no pillows in the room, so he lay on his side, clapped his palms together, and placed them beneath his ear.
Su Ximu had meant to fake sleep like them, but the day’s events were overwhelming for a child. He hadn’t reached fifty in his mental count before his consciousness faded into deep slumber.
Psychologists note that when young children face unbearable events, their minds trigger unconscious emotional safeguards. Out touring earlier, he had readily accepted his death and permanent separation from his family. Yet, true sleep brought unrest.
“Grandma…”
“Want… sob… want Grandma…”
His tiny sleep-sobs sounded utterly pitiable.
After a moment, 242 sat up from the floor. His low rank meant he wore chains on both hands, but they weren’t short enough to hinder his movement much. For the first time, his vacant eyes clearly registered the child in the corner.
Su Ximu’s once-neat sleeping pose had devolved; he was now prone amidst his tears, his arm still tucked under his cheek.
Clanking chains followed.
The crying, sleeping kid flipped over, exposing red pressure marks on his cheek and eyes flushed with tears. A crystalline teardrop pattered to the floor, splashing faintly.
242 fetched his monthly water bucket and set it beside the dripping little guy. However, the bucket was too small to catch the drops effectively from that angle. He didn’t lick the floor with his tongue; District 13’s water station forbade drinking straight from the tap, and the hand-caught water from earlier had vanished too quickly. This reinforced 242’s habit of using the bucket.
Desire is always the primary force of production. Previously thoughtless about acquisition, 242 now thirstily pondered a solution for the first time.
As the “faucet’s” output increased without a way to catch it, he finally squatted and scooped up the far smaller child. He did not know how to hold kids. Babies in the Wasteland World survived on overseer-issued nutrient liquid alone, which sustained and soothed them. Thus, 242 had never been held by parents, nor had he held his newborn brother, 243.
Coincidentally, his awkward, horizontal cradle of the fitful sleeper proved reassuring. One arm pillowed the head, the other cupped the bottom. Tears from the corner of the child’s eye dripped neatly into the bucket below.
There sat 242 on the floor, cradling the hiccuping little “faucet,” his ear tuned to the faint drips.
Patter, patter, patter…
Eventually, the kid dimly sensed the embrace and security. He sniffed once, ceased crying, and quit whimpering for his grandmother. He twisted in the warm hold, facing inward, a small hand snagging the corner of 242’s sleeve. It was a much more secure sleeping pose.
The faucet ran dry; the service ended.
242 freed a hand and gulped the bucket’s scant water. This batch tasted unlike any before, though there wasn’t enough for a full reaction. After drinking, he held still.
Su Ximu awoke while still being held. He rubbed his eyes, joyfully near-shouting, “Grandma!”
Then, memory hit: he was dead now. No Grandma.
He looked up and saw the brother from the room holding him. Of the trio, this pretty brother had made the deepest impression on him. Being cradled by him, just like Grandma used to do, deepened his fondness.
He searched his pocket for a fruit candy but failed—he must have lost them somewhere. Rising from 242’s arms, he offered a verbal thanks: “Thank you, brother.”
The brother was unresponsive, yet an imprint had taken hold. Thereafter, like a little tail, he mirrored the pretty brother’s every non-action.
There was little to do: dead folks loved spacing out. After waking, the brothers lay dazed or sat dazed.
He slipped once into the neighboring room. The neighbor Grandpa was dazed, too.
“Sorry, Grandpa next door, wasn’t on purpose.”
No reply.
The dead liked dazing, silence, and sleep. The brother hadn’t disliked him; everyone here was just like this.
Su Ximu mused that as a freshly dead person, he was unlearned in the art of constant dazing or sleeping. He craved chatter.
Still, the child’s endurance shone; he managed hours of spacing out with 242. By the afternoon, he announced his departure to his cohabitants and exited anew. Fear of getting lost curbed his range, but when he returned, his pockets were laden with loot from his foray.
The silent brother? He sat quiet, murmuring softly to himself.
“What’s this?” He pulled the first item from his pocket: a piece of diamond-like industrial scrap common in the city.
He held up the little stone that looked like a diamond and sat down with their soles touching. The tiny kid asked and answered himself, “It’s Little Stone.”
After saying that, he placed Little Stone on the floor and pulled another item from his pocket.
“What is this?”
“It’s a little flower that fell down~”
In the sandy soil of District 13, which was choked with smog, only one kind of plant—similar to a cactus—could grow. It bloomed with yellow, five-petaled flowers.
“So pretty.”
The little guy looked left and right before choosing to tuck the flower into a crack in the floor. Through this back-and-forth with himself, he quickly took stock of all his spoils of war. Aside from that little yellow flower, he put everything else back in his pocket.
In the blink of an eye, the sky had darkened again. It was time to sleep for the night.
The three brothers lay down neatly side by side once more. Su Ximu lay down in the same spot where he had napped at noon.
It was midnight.
242 looked at the little guy who had burrowed into his arms. His younger brother, 243, who had originally been sleeping next to him, was now off at some distance.
242 stared at the corner of the little guy’s eye for a good long while. No more tears flowed from it.
After a moment, 242 closed his eyes again. He did not push away the little guy lying in his arms.
