The pile of green cloth demanded his attention.
It sat in a crumpled ball in this hallway where lights flickered, afraid to stay on. Where it came from or how it got there wasn’t his business.
He snatched the jumpsuit, tried it on. A good fit. Much better than the grey one that’s rubbed his skin raw since forever.
But impersonating another worker in a higher caste? Under this oppressive regime?
Getting caught would mean certain death or a lifetime inside a cement cube.
It’d be a step up though. A chance at a better life.
Better to die reaching.
The Weekday One Hundred 