The chill woke me up before the sunlight did. My nose was stiff with cold. The walls at The Palace were thin and poorly insulated, and the windows let in any breeze that knocked. The gross, green blanket that Pam had chosen thirty years or so ago to match the gross, green paint on the walls was thin from use and washings. I stared at the bunk bed above my head. The springs from the other mattress were in shadow as sunlight began to stream in the window. I took in the bed frame so old that the wood was a gray color, my eyes rested on the faded picture of a boy and his dog on a riverbank before movement caught my eyes. Ted, the spider, lowered himself from his web in the corner above the door. I sighed to myself. I may have been able to sleep in just a little longer if I had remembered to rotate my blanket last night. There was a hole by my right foot, where I felt a stream of air hitting my toes. I usually remembered to flip the blanket so the hole was near my head, but last night I was tired from my sprint away from the tower guard and had fallen asleep seconds after my head had hit my lumpy pillow.

There wasn’t anything to wash this early in the morning, but I heaved myself out of bed anyway. The wooden frame let out a creak and resettled. I slipped into the same yellow t-shirt and jeans as yesterday and shuffled down the hall to the community shower. Our one current guest who must have checked in late last night had beaten me to it, so I shuffled back down the hall to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Our reusable filter had a dime sized hole in the side netting that had been patched over with duct tape, but a few grounds always managed to find their way into the brew anyway.

I heard the bathroom door open and shut as I sipped the bitter black liquid from a pale pink mug with a picture so dissolved now it was impossible to tell what it was supposed to be. The last few mouthfuls had grounds swimming in them, so I spat them back and dumped the remains into the shallow, metal sink and rinsed the cup to be placed upside down on the worn, pink, bleach stained towel that served as our drying rack. I passed the guest on my way down the hall.

“Good morning,” I said.

He opened his eyes wider and looked at me like I had just asked a dumb question. He turned the corner into the kitchen probably to drink the coffee I had made. When I got out of the shower the guest had gone back into his room. Other than my room, it was the only door that was shut. I heard the lock turn as I passed in the hall.

I pulled my hood up over my hair. I don’t own a hair dryer, and I had to leave before it dried to beat the crowd at the library. There was always a waiting list to use the computers, and I needed to check my email for news on a job. Any job. Because any job could get me out of The Palace. I had filled out online applications for public relations agencies, secretary positions, retail, food service, custodial staff, whatever paid.

Pam was leaning on the counter with the remote in one hand as I crossed the little lobby to get to the door.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” I said.

She lifted a chipped blue cup to show me she had already found it. Then I pulled on the cold handle and tightened my hood as I stepped outside. The sun was up, but it brought no warmth. It felt just as cold as night had, and the weeds coming up through the cracks in the sidewalk glittered with frost.

The St. Peter’s homeless shelter was on the way to the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. As I neared, the tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. The wind stood still here. I saw some of the usuals that I have passed before, those who stayed in the shelter on nippy days like this were under doorways of out-of-business-shops instead. I recognized the local homeless by their features, not their names.

The man with leathery skin, and his gray strings of hair pulled back into a low knot. He passes The Palace every evening on his one legged hobble to the shelter like clockwork. He is now standing back in an alley, giving the death glare to the brick wall in front of him. The woman, who wears the same worn leather jacket in summer and winter, sits on a stoop with her head tucked into her jacket like a guillotine victim. The elderly lady with one glove and her small dog buried in her coat sat cross-legged in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to side-step her. I rounded the final corner to the shelter and the small street was packed with news vans, and people in both rags and suits. Those in suits were talking, and those in rags were stone silent. They were speaking with their eyes, and their eyes said they were pissed.

Cherry Reeds was there; I had never seen her in the flesh before. Today her lipstick was a dark burgundy, almost like black cherries, matching her blouse and skirt combination perfectly. She had cornered a young woman with an infant swaddled over one shoulder. The woman wore what looked to me more like an old tablecloth with worn patterns of plaid than a shawl, with a green sweater underneath that was two sizes too big. Her baby was wrapped in a well used rose patterned baby blanket. She bounced the baby over her shoulder, as her large, brown eyes stared blankly at the camera. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. The black strands stuck out at odd angles from her ponytail.

“Aren't you overjoyed by the better schools in districts such as this one that this new tax will provide for your little one?”

The woman looked down at her baby, then back up at Cherry Reeds. “Y-Yes,” she stammered, “I think a better education is my baby’s future.” A drone police unit circled in the air above the news vans. The woman glanced at the machine before it zipped away to duck behind a brick wall. The wind picked up and she adjusted her child to avoid the bitter cold. M-91 D-X was tattooed on the baby’s scalp. Like a reflex I moved my hand over the same spot on my head. Mine was now covered with hair, but I knew what it said M-74 D-89. The woman’s mouth hung open as she looked from the camera to Cherry and back.

“There you have it. The Volunteer Tax is taking our country into a brighter future for inner city education.” The camera light turned off and Cherry Reeds walked away from the ragged woman in search of her next 15 second clip. The woman watched her walk away, mouth still agape in a numb observing manner until her baby let out a cry. She switched the baby from one shoulder to another and scurried off to get in the line for the shelter.

I looked at the entrance to the building. The line was out the door. I had never seen it so long except on Christmas when this shelter handed out donated toys to local kids. A large woman stood outside the double doors assuring the homeless and hungry crowd that it would not be long. They were just short staffed today. She smiled a cheap lipstick smile at the line of dead eyes and grumbles.

“I was here first!” It was the man with one leg missing. He had moved from staring at the wall in the alley to the front of the line.

The large woman ignored him.

“I was here first!”

“Get in line and we will help as soon as we can,” she forced a smile.

“I WAS HERE FIRST. I WAS HERE FIRST. I’M ALWAY HERE. I’M ALWAYS HERE FIRST.” Each statement was louder than the last. I heard a faint humming and turned to see the drone come back into sight.

“Please, get in line. You can’t cut like-”

“I WAS HERE FIRST!” He pushed the large woman out of the way and began beating on the door. A news van door slid open and two men in suits stepped out. 734 agents. Their movements were swift. One agent grabbed the homeless man and spun him around so quickly that his false leg slipped out from under him. He hit his knees and looked up. In that instant the other agent slid a needle into his neck. The reaction was immediate. The man got up and stared straight ahead, unseeing. He walked with the agents towards the van that had been disguised as a Channel 4 vehicle. As he passed the line of waiting, hungry faces scared murmurs of “Persim cares for you,” could be heard.

When the three passed me I kept my mouth shut.