I came to the market this morning dressed as a man in order to sell three oranges, stolen from a tree behind a walled garden in the gold zone. Each of the oranges is a potential lifeline. I could eat them and quench my desire for something sweet and liquidy, but if I sell them here in Mosquito Market, these three oranges can be traded for so much more. Water purification tablets. Meat. Batteries for the radio and the flashlight, both of which are dead and leave me in dark, silent nights when the drizzle makes it impossible to build a fire. All I can do is lie underneath the sheet iron roof and hope that the old plastic bags I glued to it keep the rain from corroding through.
I wear heavy men’s clothes, a big overcoat with shoulder pads that make me look broader. I have a broad-brimmed hat
