People treat ratter communities like apparitions: Don’t look for their fate could be yours.
Now dumped in their ghetto as one of them, I feel like a post-human ghost.
“What crime put you in our skin?” a ratter girl asks me.
“I hit a ratter with my car,” I answer, slumped. “I didn’t ignore her, broke the law, and saved her.”
She offers me a shaking hand up. “That ratter, was me.”
Copyright © 2019 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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