The front door slams and jolts me from slumber. I uncurl and raise my head. What mortal dares to awaken me?
Ah. It’s my Human, Tricia. She takes off her wet rainboots in the entryway and hangs up her jacket.
“Hello, Mr. Fluffers!” She says in the annoyingly high voice reserved for me and me only.
Gray. My entire world is gray. The foliage is dead, and the sky’s covered with a cloud of pollution. The factories, the prison buildings, our radiation-resistant uniforms. Even our skin is gray from malnutrition and lack of sun.
I adjust the mask pressed against my face and step off the bus from the women’s penitentiary, following the line of other prisoners toward the factory.
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