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What the hell was I doing here? The answer was, of course, that I was crouched in a small alleyway, trying to hide myself behind the large dumpster I’d found there. At my feet were fruit peels, old news-papers, spent cigarettes and other kinds of imaginable refuse that hadn’t quite made it into the garbage container. The cool evening air was ripe with putrid smells. If I wasn’t so terrified of being caught I think I would have vomited. Then again, if I wasn’t worried about being caught, I wouldn’t be wedged up against this damned dumpster to begin with.

Things had started off well enough (which thinking back should have been a sign). The location on the note wasn’t close to the library, and since I’d over slept, I thought it would be a good idea and help pacify some of Gracie’s wraith by working later than usual. I’d arrived about fifteen minutes early and decided to wait around. At least, that was the initial plan until I’d heard the beginning of the police raid nearby and ducked into the alleyway. Now I was squatting in this putrid place while my work clothes became damp from nervous sweat. Even if I somehow managed to make it out of the situation alive, Nym would certainly have some questions. Part of me wanted to throw myself of the mercy of the law enforcement. The problem with this was that my first instinct had been to hide. If I’d come scrambling out of the alley at the beginning, I could have given the excuse of being lost but the longer I lingered about, crouching in the shadows, the guiltier I’d become. 

[b]”Damn it,”[/b] I whisper into the creeping darkness around me.

Nearby the police sirens continued to wail. Every now and then I hear shouting and what sounds to me like the police are trying to break down a nearby building, one wall at a time. I wonder what they’re after. Maybe there’s a Rebel base nearby or a drug strong hold. Rumor is the head of Resistant’s black market lives somewhere in the area. Then again, for all I know, it could be routine. Prior to the bombing, the government would often have random raids. Of course, they’d never admit they were ‘random’ but I sometimes felt these happened because the police grew bored or simply wanted to show they were working to fix the Rebel threat. For reasons no one ever seems to ask, the general rule for raids was that the poorer your neighborhood, the more likely it was to be targeted. 

In my mind, the voice of my third grade teacher rings out. [i]”You think too much, Charles. If you don’t watch out, you’ll think yourself to death.”[/i] She always said those words with a smile, but the threat they portrayed crystal clear even to my eight-year-old self.

My heart skips a beat as a gun fires nearby. Despite my dark navy clothes, I feel like I stand out like a beacon. Looking around the alley, I search for a better place to hide but aside from a few broken cardboard boxes, nothing is big enough. The only better hiding place is inside the dumpster. Mentally I weigh the decision. On hand, its metal shell may provide a bit of protection or at least hide me from anyone who chooses to walk down alley. On the other hand, it’s bound to make some noise when I open it and the thought of having to be inside it and suffocating on stale rancid air (let alone sit in yesterday’s leavings) makes my skin crawl. 

Thankfully I’m saved from making the decision. My entire body freezes as I hear the approach of footsteps.