mariner wade | four | cbd #1 finished

You learned very young to hold your breath for 3 whole minutes. Little fingers grasped a long screwdriver, poking into the sand for the answering knock of the clamshells. Dad wouldn’t let you up to breathe until the bucket was full. During the first three months, you blacked out seven times, face-down in the surf. It started to work when you learned to detach from the sense of danger.

You hated being held under against your will. You felt a bit damaged, like your brain couldn’t go fast enough. You weren’t good enough at school to care, and doubted any lessons could improve that. Like so many others in Four, your family was at the mercy of the sea, waking up at an unholy hour to find those choice pieces you were told they paid extra for in the Capitol. They were worth more if you caught them by hand rather than net—your family's livelihood depended on this niche.

With your brown eyes, shiny curls, and generous grin, you were a string of pearls hanging on any arm that could afford you. A rumor heard during career training made you curious, and you enlisted your body for trade. It was easier money than fishing and you preferred the smell. Mom and Dad didn’t ask where the cash came from. They had two other kids who worked with less complaint.

When they paid for your company, you were generous, you did what was asked, you laughed at their jokes. You liked the way they watched you. Still there were pieces that you kept to yourself. You knew how to hold your breath.

You would do anything to feel like more than a little boy born to poke in the sand for clams. Try-hard, show-off, exhibitionist, you’ve had all the names thrown at you.

But if you were going to die one day, why not be the subject of the anecdote?