I SHOVE OPEN the doors from the lobby and burst out onto the sidewalk, gasping for air. My head is buzzing and my stomach is doing flip-flops. I didn’t realize that having a baby was such a noisy, bloody mess.
On the sidewalks and in the middle of the street, people are moving uptown for the feast. They’ve got a little more lift in their step, a little more hope on their faces.
I step into the street and merge into the crowd. Two blocks up, I see a huge tent—so big that it takes up the whole block. We saw tents all the way up from the river this morning, but this is the biggest one yet.
People are already milling around underneath. The feast isn’t scheduled to start for another hour, but I guess nobody wants to take a chance on being late. Kids are already running around the tables, and people are gathering in big groups, happy and smiling. Even the TinGrins at the entrance seem more cheerful than usual. “Have a most beautiful day,” they say to everybody.
“And you as well,” everybody says back.
I duck inside the tent. On the street side, huge kitchen trucks are backed up with their generators humming. Giant fans are sending out some pretty amazing aromas. Roast meat. Baking pies. There are huge screens mounted to the tentpoles. They’re showing scenes of wheat fields and orchards and streams full of fish. There’s music, too—sweet and happy-sounding—coming out of huge black speakers.
One corner of the tent is separated from the seating area by thick black drapes hanging from a metal pipe. A huge guard stands at the barrier. I step right in front of him, face-to-face.
“You can’t go back there,” says the guard.
“Sure I can. Watch how it’s done.”
The guard stiffens up and grips his rifle tighter.
“Let me through. Right now.”
The guard steps aside.
“See how easy that was?” I say.
Behind the draping, I see worktables and stainless-steel carts loaded with food. Mountains of it. Trays with whole turkeys and thick slabs of beef, platters of mashed potatoes and green beans, bowls filled with fruit. Now that I’m back here, nobody’s paying any attention to me. There’s too much going on. No reason to waste my invisibility energy right now.
I spot some movement under one of the prep tables. I lean down for a look. There’s a scrawny kid, maybe six or seven years old, crawling like a worm, keeping out of sight of the guards and the workers. Every few seconds, he stretches his hand up and grabs anything in reach. He’s taking small bites and stuffing the extra food in his pockets. His mouth is already full of bread and now he’s reaching for a bunch of red grapes dangling down from the edge of the table. He stuffs a few grapes into his mouth.
All of a sudden, his eyes bulge out and foam starts to spill out of his mouth. I get down on my knees and slip under the table. The draping hides us. He’s on his back now. And he’s not breathing. I shake him by the leg. I touch his neck. Nothing. It was over that fast.
I look up at the mounds of food. Now it clicks. I know exactly what’s about to happen. It’s going to happen all over the city.
And I don’t know how to stop it.