dina chante / d11 / done

Books are best kept secret.

I've learned far too well that, while they can bring prosperity, they can also tear the people closest to you away.

Sold on the black market, they're only truly safe under lock and key. Their mysterious secrets from years ago buried beneath leather-bound covers whispers at night, calling out to their readers. Their value outdates the words inside their covers, and some view them as the lifeblood of true knowledge and power.

I believe that too.

Just not in the way that my buyers believe.

I need to hide my secret wealth so that peacekeepers aren't clued in to my dealings. Any form of black market trade is illegal, even if I deal in bounds of paper rather than illicit substances. The harsh Eleven peacekeepers would probably burn my only source of income to the ground.

It all started when I was eight, when my father finally trusted that my youthful blabbermouth had disappeared and he finally told me about the family business that kept food on the table. Youth really does bring naivety; I had genuinely believed that my mother's job in the field was what kept me more well fed than the average kid in district eleven. Soon after that, he had begun taking me to learn to barter. I had stood at his side as he haggled with the elderly who had managed to keep firm, hidden grasps on their books throughout the years. I had watched as he always managed to find his way around their guard and end up leaving with a few pages hidden in his jacket.

Make sure the peacekeepers never find out, he had told me before we found a way to one of the few wealthy citizens of district eleven who often bought those twine-bound pages from us. They paid us handsomely for the decaying words, at least more than my mom's coworkers made.

At night, he would gently brush my black hair and whisper words he had picked up here and there from our clientele who would often read out-loud to themselves until I fell asleep. We never really managed to grasp the hang of it. Schools here aren't really the best, so I just knew enough to make out the words as I sound them out to myself. I managed to read titles and simple phrases, but my parents and I never could understand the flowery language hidden within each novel.

That was before they found out.

I still don't understand why selling harmless pieces of paper with ink on them warrants five years in the detention center for "political dissidence." The peacekeepers hadn't even managed to find our stash. They had just shown up one day, searched our house, then dragged my father away. I'm still waiting for him to be dragged back to us.

I've taken over the business now. The peacekeepers rarely look twice at the well-fed girl huddled in her jacket. Normally, their efforts are more focused on keeping field workers like my mom in line.

But it's now my job to make sure my mom and I both get fed.

I listen for whispers of someone who has those valued page among the hidden links in the black market book world. I reach their house and offer a trade. I've picked up my father's skills, normally walking away from a house with what I want before I bring it along to who I am selling it to. Most people don't realize the value of the books they possess, but I know now. I know how the wealthiest in this district are willing to pay what they can to help prevent their children from ending up in the fields while at the same time conglomerating their own knowledge. I know the way to walk away from a house with what I need to keep myself and my mother from starving. And while I don't know for certain what's the big deal peacekeepers make about the words housed in these books, I know they're important enough to help me live.

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