A lone candle burns on a tiny cake. One slice is missing.
Peter – 18-years-old today – puts fork to mouth. He chews, winces.
“Good. Sweet though…”
District Manager Cranford, a trim, intense woman smiles. She hands him a small, efficiently wrapped box.
“A birthday present…” he whispers. “I’ve heard about these. Thank you, Den Mother.”
She heads towards the door. “Tomorrow, Peter. 8am sharp.”
Moments later, Cranford is flanked by two female agents. Agent #1 locks the front door of Peter’s apartment as Agent #2 hands over another box, identical to the one she gifted Peter.
“Christ, how many more tonight?”
The Weekday One Hundred 