As you proceed silently down Street #11, you feel your heart pulsating through your chest. Should I have walked with Andrew, you ask yourself. What would he have told you? What even is The Narrows?

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Once at home, you find yourself staring at the soulless gray Communicator affixed to the ceiling of your bedroom. Your mind races wildly. What is The Narrows like, you ponder. Is it an Event similar to the Event of Identification? Why didn't Observer Holston mention The Narrows before?

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A rapt on your bedroom door abruptly rips you from your daydream. "Josiah, may I enter, please?" your mom poses politely.

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"Yes, of course."

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Entering the room gingerly, she immediately halts to gaze at the Communicator lording over her, before turning back toward you. "I heard you spent some time with Andrew Hillman today," she offers, playing coy.

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"He tried to walk back from the Institute with me. I'm not sure what he wanted."

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"Of course," she states, cracking a slight smile.

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You and your mom lock eyes, the unspoken presence of the Communicator occupying the room. Thinking for a minute, you finally break the silence. "Can we get some food downstairs, mom?" you ask all-too kindly.

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"Really?"

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You try again. "I'm still hungry so I'd like to get some food downstairs," you repeat, emphasizing yourself.

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"Oh, of course, Josiah," she answers, picking-up on your message.

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The two of you make your way downstairs, stopping in the Communicator's audio dead zone between the kitchen archway and the corner. Your mom shifts to make eye contact with you, before beginning to whisper.

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"Josiah Henry—what did you two discuss?"

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"He told me about The Narrows," you fire back, watching her eyes widen upon hearing the three syllables.

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"Josiah, we can never discuss this again. Ever. I mean, the things that they do—the Organization does—it's, it's horrifying. Did Andrew say what they did to his father? It's not worth it. They'll catch you. What we have is too valuable, too special—"

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"What we have?" you refute her, struggling to keep your voice down away from the Communicator on the opposite side of the room. "We have nothing, mom. Absolutely nothing," you re-iterate. "Tell me something, how was your day today? How many golden Colors did they kill at your Event tonight? Five? Ten? Because I spent my entire day at the Institute learning about our malevolent overlords and being harassed in the streets by anyone wearing purple."

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Peering at your mom, you see tears welling deep in her emerald eyes.

Finally, she speaks.

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"The Narrows is a place, Josiah. It's beyond the Outlying Lands. It's supposed to be somewhere—"

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"It's another Society?" you pose to her, desperate for clarity.

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"It's something else entirely. It's not like The Society. They say there are no Guidelines, no Colors, no Organization recording our every breath with Communicators," she describes.

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Dumbstruck, you grasp for any words that will come to you. "But, but why don't they tell us that it exists?"

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You witness your mother visibly struggling for words. "Because they don't want us to know, Josiah. They want us to believe that The Society is the world, that people everywhere don Colors and live alongside Observers directed by the Organization," she says, as your head begins to spin. "They're lying to us. You can't be naive," she adds.

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You nearly double-over when you hear that term, naive. Sure, you'd always thought that there was something more to this world than The Society, but how could you know? How could you think about that when people die every single day simply for wearing a different Color?

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"I'm sorry mom but this is a lot. More than anything, I can't believe you kept this from me," you growl through your teeth, before storming off. You already regret lashing out, but you're seething with rage.

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As you emerge on Street #4 on Day 11,349, you notice it's an oddly quiet morning. Proceeding to the Institute as directed, the streets are almost entirely vacant. This type of silence is exceedingly rare in The Society, so you don't mind your morning constitutional.

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Spilling-out onto Street #11, you instantly recognize muffled cries and cheers erupting around you. Halting in your tracks, you scan the nearby buildings for any sign of activity. Suddenly, you hear a massive crash to your left—a purple Color flies headfirst through a window nearby, shooting glass into the street.

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Turning to your left, you observe a group of golden Colors march out onto the street through a door just beside the window. Cackling with glee, they hardly notice your presence merely a few feet from the motionless purple Color on the ground.

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"Aw, come on, George-y!" one of them shouts, as they proceed to the still purple Color near your feet. "Cut the bullshit roadkill act. You're not dead. Not yet, at least," he bellows, sending the rest of the group into a fit of laughter.

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Rooted to the spot, you find yourself utterly unable to move. You are completely transfixed by this cadre of middle-aged golden Colors not younger than your own parents.

 

Shifting your attention to the purple Color, you study the boy on the ground. He couldn't be older than fourteen or fifteen, but his face is bruised and battered. He sports a huge blackish-yellow bruise under one eye. Shards of glass protrude from his cheek. Blood mats his thick auburn hair.

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"You want-in on the fun, huh guy?" says a deep baritone voice behind you. Wheeling around, you find yourself face-to-face with a stocky middle-aged man draped in golden Colors. He's wearing a set of brass knuckles on each hand, both sets stained with crimson.

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"What happened?" you ask, searching for ways to avoid declining the man's offer.

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"We found little George-y snooping near John's house," he boasts, pointing toward one of the golden Colors encircling the purple Color on the ground. "Probably wanted to steal some shit," he speculates wildly, pausing for a second.

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"Who knows? Guy's gonna be in a buncha fun little pieces soon," howls the golden Color. "You got a blade on you? Got a spare shiv if you need."

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"That's alright—I'm afraid I'm late for my lessons at the Institute," you answer. For once, you're grateful for your mandatory lessons and glad to be a golden Color.

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Nodding approvingly, the man continues. "Good. Lessons are very good. Well, you change your mind we'll be getting to know—yeah, getting to know—young George-y just inside that house today. The more the merrier," he jokes, as his group roars with laughter.

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You feign a smile back at the man, before stealing one last glance at the motionless purple Color. The other golden Colors are already removing his dented Coalition pin and tearing off his purple Colors, while the man lies still, breathing only just.

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Inside the Institute, you struggle to contain yourself during Holston's lesson. They're going to kill that fucking kid, and you just watched it happen. You might as well have plunged a shiv into his heart. Am I a murderer, you ask yourself? Did I kill him, you wonder?

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The image of the motionless boy draped in purple Colors sears itself into your brain. There are no doodles today. You can only think about the boy and whether he would've been spared in The Narrows.

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Once Holston concludes her insufferable lesson for the day, you struggle to exit your chair. You feel tied-down, as if the weight of the world is pushing down on you.

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"Josiah!" a voice erupts, shattering the grotesque silence. Andrew emerges next to you.

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"Andrew, hey," you respond meekly.

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"C'mon. We should really start heading home, Josiah," Andrew states, his words lingering in the air as he helps you to your feet.

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Mumbling affirmatively, you follow Andrew out the door and head downstairs together.

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Outside, he immediately pulls you in tightly. "What happened to make you so—"

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"My mom told me about The Narrows, Andrew," you whisper back. "We need to leave," you declare, meeting his fierce blue eyes. "I can't think about what I saw today, not for another second."

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His face cracks into a soft smile. "Tonight. Street #24 at midnight. I'll be there alone—my mom's too scared after what happened to my dad. If you truly trust your mom or your dad, you can bring one of them," he explains. "But not both."

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The rest of the walk home is eerily silent. Snapshot memories of your parents flood your head, from your dad beaming proudly after your first Institute lesson as a six year-old to your mom sobbing uncontrollably after your ten year-old self told her you'd befriended a purple Color who lived next door.

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Then, the visions run through your head. You try and picture you and your dad fleeing for The Narrows in the dead of night together. You imagine your mom outrunning the Observers with you as you reach the border of the Outlying Lands. You cannot decide whether to ask your dad or your mom to accompany you on this trip, knowing death feels all-too certain.

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