17

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It seemed to 17 that her family had been laborers in the Factory forever. Her mother claimed that her great-great-great grandparents had worked in the original Factory, and that they had helped in the reconstruction after the One Big One; her most treasured possession was a photo of men and women in rags standing in knee-deep mud in front of a hillside of trees all knocked down in the same direction.

17 had worked since she could walk, when her mother had taught her how to grade waste paper. Then she had cycled with the kids from her rack, chasing heavy metal residues in the flues of the refineries, harvesting mussels in the sewers for their metal-rich shells, sorting through the spill heaps. She had run with the same pack for ten years, had been boss for the last three, but at last she had realized that she wasn’t interested in them any more. They were just kids. So she had picked a fight with the next oldest, a lanky boy called Wulf, had beaten him bloody and had told him that he was boss now, and had walked away.

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