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unwanted attention. I hated them. My mother had brown eyes, brown hair, and dark skin. I looked just like her, dark and slight, but with different eyes. They were my father’s eyes. Every time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded of the man who left us. The man I had few memories of, but who was kind enough to leave his eyes. A genetic oddity I could never escape. I hated my father and I hated my eyes. He was to blame for bringing Paulo into our lives. He was to blame for what was happening to me now. I could feel tears rising. I wiped my face with my sleeve, tasting rust, and glared at the boy.
    “ Look, leave me alone, I’m not who you think I am. I am…” And that was it. I ran a few meters away from the confused boy and collapsed on the ground. Who cared if he saw me crying? I had every right to be upset. But I was ashamed at myself for being so emotional. My mother would never behave like this, which only made it worse. My life was about to change forever and this boy was harassing me about my eyes. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. I could barely breathe for how hard I was crying. My whole body shook in jerky movements, like I couldn’t calm my limbs down or make them do what I wanted them to do.
    I felt a warm, heavy hand on my back, patting me softly, awkwardly. I let it sit there. I felt drained, no more fight left in me. I let it all out and, thankfully, he didn’t say a word.

Over the next couple of weeks, I skipped school. I went through the motions, which seemed to satisfy my mother. If she had any idea I was ditching, she certainly didn’t let on. I packed my bag, took my lunch off the kitchen table, and walked to the school. I scanned my wrist and the large, ornate, wrought-iron school gate swung open slowly. The carved picture of the Pau Brasil tree rattled in the center as the gate came to a halt. I just stood there and waited for it to close again without walking through, watching other students running to class as the bell rang out. I doubted whether my teachers’ cared if I was there or not. Being the class troublemaker, I’m sure my absence was welcome. Instead, I had been walking to the factory every day.
    After registering my presence at the school, I always m ade my way to the gate of Ring Three, hiding behind bushes if I saw anyone I knew, which was few. Everyone worked or cared for children. Most preferred to work. It was unusual for people to be wandering the streets after nine AM. It was exhilarating not being at school, having some measure of freedom, and it was definitely fun knowing I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
    Joseph was always there , sitting on the concrete pole, waiting, ready to help me through the gate. He didn’t ask about what had happened at our first meeting and I never volunteered to tell him.
    The first few times he just helped me through, smiling and always holding my wrist a little too long. I always thanked him, bowed my head, and walked on through—trying not to blush at the extended contact.
    After a few days, he announced that he was going to walk with me. I shrugged and let him follow in silence. I could tell he was bursting to speak but he kept quiet. I appreciated his restraint. I wasn’t ready yet.
    We walked until we came to the next wall. Menacingly high and straight as an arrow, the giant concrete structure towered over us. It showed no signs of wear although I knew it had stood there for at least two hundred years. We followed the curve along for a while. I let my hand trail along the cool, hard surface, sanding my fingertips, until we got to the next gate through to Ring Five. I knew he wanted to follow me, I knew he wanted to ask me a hundred questions—so I stopped him.
    “ Thanks for the company.” I tried to smile, but my face felt awkward and hot.
    He stifled a laugh at m y pathetic attempt. “Anytime!” And he sauntered off in the other direction, his hand in a backwards wave like he was indifferent. It shouldn’t