Page 3 of Mutant Mine

The other prisoners in the few cells around us laugh. For a second I panic — does he know I’m a woman?

“Kid like that shouldn’t be down here anyway,” says another prisoner.

“Right,” smirks the first guy. “It’s like waving a red rag in front of a herd of bulls.”

My brow furrows. Without thinking, I ask: “Did I dosomething wrong?”

“Wrong? No, little Lunchlady. But I could teach you how to do something oh so wrong… and make it feel so right!” He sticks his tongue out at me and does a little hip-waggling dance, while the other men laugh.

Oh. I see. He’s just being standard-issue gross. Okay. No worries.

I carry on delivering food to the next couple of cells without reacting.

“Kid, I’m sorry,” says Mean Gross Guy with an apologetic grin. “I don’t mean no harm by it. Just tell us your name.”

“I’m not a kid,” I say.

“How old are you then?”

I’m twenty-three.

“I’m nineteen,” I say, remembering myself.

“Oh, nineteen!” Mean Gross Patronizing Guy guffaws. “Well do pardon me! I’m in the presence of an elder!”

I manage to get a few cells further down before another voice pipes up from a different cell.

“This food is fucking disgusting.”

“I know,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, they feed the same stuff to the crew.”

“You saying you don’t cook this up for us with your own fair hands, Lunchlady?”

Ireallyneed them to stop calling me a lady. I don’t want that idea planted in anyone’s head.

“Please stop calling me that,” I snap.

“We’ll stop calling you that when you tell us your name.”

The less they know about you, the better,our training told us.Keep the relationship as functional as possible. Nothing personal.But what harm could a name do?

“Finch,” I say. “Officer Finch.”

“Finch!” one of the men croons. “So sweet. He’s just a littlebird!”

“Finch, my food is cold. Could you get me a new portion?”

I roll my eyes. “No I cannot.”

“Aren’t you basically our maid, Finch? Could you come in here and make my bed for me?”

“Turn-down service!” another cackles.

Crap. Are they so bored that this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to them in weeks? Maybe the other guards just blank them completely. I shouldn’t have risen to the bait. I’m not cut out for this kind of work. Being hard and stone-faced isn’t in my nature.

Reddening, I scuttle to the very last cell. I just want to get the job done and get out of here. I get the last steaming pot out of the cart, and keep my eyes down as I put it into the drawer and push it through.

“Thank you… Officer Finch,” says a low voice. It sounds rough, like the grinding of a gear that’s rarely used. I look up — and my heart stops.

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