Chapter 2
The villagers sat gathered in a circle. At the head of the group were the Captain and Vice Captain, both chewing on a type of grass known to ease tension and bring on a drowsy haze.
The Captain—a man with a long scar across his cheek and silvery-white hair tied back in a rough knot—glanced at Number 8 before looking away.
“You’re late.”
“Ah… well…”
“Save the excuses. Sit.”
Number 8 and Number 3 took their seats at the edge of the circle. The Vice Captain snapped his fingers.
“Alright! Let’s see today’s loot!”
At his booming, triumphant announcement, the reconnaissance team that had accompanied him began hauling in boxes. The adults’ treasure.
They tipped the crates over, sending a cascade of bullets, handguns, and a few assault rifles clattering to the dirt. It wasn’t a massive haul, but given how hard weapons were to come by, it was more than enough to justify the Vice Captain’s pride.
Next came a tumbling pile of canned goods and frozen bread.
Number 3 and Number 8’s eyes went wide. Just the sight of the food made their stomachs rumble. Number 3 was already licking his lips, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Tonight’s a festival,” the Vice Captain declared with a bold grin.
Beside him, the Captain whittled a piece of wood with a serrated blade.
“Don’t get too carried away,” he warned sternly. “We set sail just before dawn.”
Number 3’s eyes lit up even brighter.
Every kid on the island dreamed of boarding a ship.
Except for Number 8.
It was a secret, but the truth was, Number 8 was a little—just a tiny bit, really just a teeny-tiny bit—scared of massive machines. He much preferred swimming through the ocean under his own power over riding on one of those metal behemoths. Number 3 thought he was utterly pathetic for it.
It’s so amazing out there. Haven’t you heard the adults talking? They said there’s so much stuff we’ve never seen on the island. A completely different world!
A completely different world… Having lived on this island for as long as he could remember, Number 8 had no need for a different world. He was so oblivious to the outside that he didn’t even realize how much the island lacked. As far as he was concerned, it was a perfectly fine place to call home.
Sure, the adults were terrifying, his stomach was usually empty, and beatings were a regular occurrence. But how could he not like a place where he had a spot to sleep, woke up every morning, and could go swimming whenever he wanted? For the kids here, loving the only world they knew was practically their only option.
Regardless, Number 3 stared off with dreamy eyes, lost in fantasies of his upcoming first voyage.
Meanwhile, the loot was passed around the circle.
Once the adults claimed all the canned goods, there was barely anything left for the kids. But the Vice Captain’s aide glanced at Number 3, Number 8, the still-crawling Number 14, and the barely-toddling Number 16. Clicking his tongue, he pulled something from his coat.
“Here. You kids eat this.”
A single tin can, some homemade baked bread, a banana, and a grilled fish.
Number 8 kept throwing glances at Number 3, who had eagerly caught the tossed can and was now clumsily trying to pry it open with the knife he’d been gifted for his upcoming voyage. At the same time, Number 8 pretended to tear off small pieces of his bread to eat, secretly stuffing them into his pocket instead.
The can proved stubborn. While Number 3 struggled with it, Number 8 sliced the banana, picked the meat off the fish, wrapped it all in the bread, and slipped the bundle into his pocket. His pocket grew heavy, but his stomach remained painfully empty. Famished, he licked his lips.
When Number 3 finally managed to pop the lid, they found water sloshing inside like the ocean, along with round, mysterious chunks of what was presumably fruit.
“Wow!” Number 3 exclaimed. “I’ve had this before! It’s peaches!”
“Peaches?” Number 8 asked, tilting his head.
“It’s seriously so good. Super soft and squishy. Alright, this one’s mine.”
There were four slices of fruit inside. Number 3 claimed two for himself and handed one to Number 8. He chopped the last slice into tiny pieces for Number 14 and Number 16. The toddlers, who couldn’t even speak yet, plopped down in the dirt and smacked their lips as they ate, getting their hands completely sticky.
Fruit submerged in water. Number 8 poked at the slice with a puzzled expression. It was firm yet bouncy. He had never seen anything like it.
But watching Number 3 devour his first slice in an instant and then carefully cut the second into smaller pieces to savor it, Number 8 decided to take a tiny bite.
The moment he did, a flavor so intense it felt like an explosion behind his eyes burst across his tongue.
His mouth instantly watered, his hands and lips growing sticky with syrup. Before he even realized what he was doing, Number 8 frantically devoured the entire slice. It was so good he completely forgot his plan to save it for his newly acquired loot.
By the time he snapped out of his daze, Number 3 was already chugging the leftover syrup straight from the can. Number 8 stared down at his empty, sticky hands in dismay.
Catching his disappointed look, Number 3 held out the tin, offering the last bit of syrup sloshing at the bottom.
“You can have this.”
“What about Number 14 and Number 16?”
“They don’t earn their keep yet,” Number 3 said coldly.
You only got to eat and rest if you pulled your weight.
That was the island’s simplest rule, and its only law.
Mumbling a quick thanks, Number 8 carefully tilted his head back and drained the remaining syrup. Sad to see it gone so fast, he even sucked on the rim of the can to get every last drop.
Once again, the sheer sweetness forced his eyes shut and brought an involuntary smile to his face.
Just then, someone walked up and smacked him hard on the back of the head.
“Number 8. I noticed you didn’t bring anything back today.”
It was Salmo, a boy who had earned his name when he started boarding the ships.
Despite his painstaking efforts to grow out a patchy beard, he couldn’t quite hide his acne or his lingering boyishness. He used to be Number 2.
Salmo snatched the empty tin right out of Number 8’s hands. Number 8’s face immediately crumpled, and he let out a distressed, “Ah… ah…”
“You little shit. You should be grateful we even feed you.”
With a sneer, Salmo slapped Number 8 across the cheek. Number 8, entirely used to this, simply turned his head back to face forward.
“Hey, Number 3. Stop coddling him. Keep letting him slide, and you’ll be next on the chopping block.”
Number 3 nodded quickly in agreement.
Number 8 didn’t feel hurt. It was just how things worked. If he had been in Number 3’s shoes, he would have reacted the exact same way.
“Alright, you kids go inside and sleep.”
No one paid any mind to Salmo’s bullying. The Captain just waved them off dismissively.
When Number 3 scrambled to his feet at the Captain’s order, the man stopped him.
“You stay put.”
Number 3 beamed, scooting closer to the fire, while Number 8 expertly gathered up Number 14 and Number 16 and headed into their sleeping quarters.
The sleeping quarters, strung with several hammocks, were thick with humidity. Number 8 laid the toddlers down in the bug-infested room and lit some pungent leaves to smoke out the gnats.
Peeking through the crack in the door, he watched the adults grow increasingly rowdy around the fire. Then, he quietly pushed the door open and slipped out. Crawling flat on his stomach, he managed to hook the discarded peach tin and drag it back to himself. Before any of the adults could spot him, he scrambled away into the dark.
No one paid any attention to a little kid like Number 8.
* * *
Despite the pitch-black night, Number 8 navigated the dense brush as easily as if it were broad daylight. His arms and legs itched from passing bug bites, but as long as he avoided the vipers, he didn’t care. Scratching his arm, he slipped back into the cave, only to find the man panting and drenched in a cold sweat.
The man’s face was flushed dark red, clearly burning up with a fever. He’s going to die at this rate. Number 8’s face crumpled, terrified that the very first living treasure he had ever scavenged was about to turn into a corpse.
Emptying his pockets of the hoarded food, Number 8 darted back outside to forage for medicinal herbs. He chewed them into a paste and was about to stuff the poultice into the bread, but upon seeing the man’s pale, cracked lips, he dropped the mashed herbs into the empty tin instead.
“Try this,” he whispered. “It’s super good.”
Swallowing hard against his own craving, Number 8 brought the tin to the man’s lips.
He propped the man’s head up on his lap and urged him on.
“Hurry, come on, hurry.”
He knew the man couldn’t hear him, but he kept rushing him anyway—terrified that if he waited too long, the memory of that intense sweetness would overpower him, and he’d end up drinking it himself.
Fortunately, the man seemed to react to the sweet scent. The moment the rim touched his lips, he weakly swallowed down the last of the syrupy water. Number 8 had mixed in the chewed herbs to bring down the fever and fight off infection, so with any luck, the man would pull through.
He really needs to be lucky.
Looking glum, Number 8 gently laid the man’s head back down, then curled up beside him, hugging his knees to his chest.
Number 3 was probably so hyped up from the adults’ food that he’d pass out without even realizing Number 8 was gone. If he did get caught later, he could just lie and say he felt bad for coming back empty-handed, so he went out to catch some night fish. A quick beating and an apology would probably smooth things over.
“Don’t die,” Number 8 whispered. “You can’t die.”
Number 8 grabbed the man’s discarded jacket—the one with the buttons he hadn’t yet ripped off—and draped it over him like a blanket.
“You have such pretty buttons… It’d be a waste if you just died.”
Earlier, he had boldly threatened to kill the man if he died; now, he was softly coaxing him to live. His voice was already thick with affection. Perhaps the simple fact that this man belonged to him had made him a little softer.
He had even surrendered the precious, ultra-sweet syrup he’d been hoarding, yet the man remained silent.
Number 8 stared at the man for a long time before his head began to bob. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, his face dropping to rest against his drawn-up knees.
