Free World-Mart by Leigh Lane

criminals.
    The room had three gray walls, with a row of bars along the front in place of the fourth, and despite the circulation between it and the corridor, it reeked of vomit and urine.  One other middle-aged man was in there, lying on his side, half-awake.  He wore a Furniture-Mart associate polo shirt and khaki pants.  He had thrown up on himself while passed out, but he was not yet awake enough to acknowledge the smelly mess that lingered on his face and in his hair.
    George sat down as the police associates locked the door and walked off.  He heard one of the associates call out a number, but he yawned as the man spoke and he didn’t hear it.  His number had already been called, his ticket taken; there was no need to pay attention now.  He heard a door down the corridor open and then slam back shut as the associates escorted another prisoner into the interrogation room.
    The other man in George’s cell slowly came to, wiping the crusty hair from his face.  He sat up, realizing that he was not alone, and he gave George a hard scowl.
    George turned away from the man.  He was in no mood for another altercation.  His head still pounded, but at least the nausea had subsided.  He slouched back in his chair and closed his eyes, hoping that he might sleep through his remaining hours of confinement.  George knew Law-Corp, and when it all came down to it, humans rarely were incarcerated anymore.  Deviants filled the majority of the prisons, amongst the occasional human murderer or rapist.  It would take no more than a couple more hours for management to process his paperwork, and then he and the kids would be free to return home.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to pay Housing for the damage he did to the Rockwells’ living room, but he would worry about that after he ensured that what remained of his family was safe at home.
    He had no idea how to track the hours, as the cell had no windows, there were no visible clocks, and the associates had taken his watch.  He dozed for a short time, waking to find the other man trying to remove his shoes.  He kicked the man away, securing his shoes with the retying of both laces, keeping one eye on the man to make sure he didn’t come tearing back in some crazed, hung-over rage.  He looked up as the man decided to return to his cot, a mix of anger and guilt complicating his face.
    George decided that the man was no real threat and stared him down for a moment, just to establish that he was not to be assaulted again.
    The other man looked down, ashamed to have been caught in the act.  “I’m sorry, s ir,” he said going by work status rather than age to determine their hierarchy, assuming by George’s nice shoes that he was likely a member of the Corp Segregate.
    “Just stay on your side of the cell,” George said in his most authoritative voice.
     “I just thought that . . . I’ve been arrested for getting drunk a few times now, I thought they might go easy on me if I was wearing nicer shoes.  What was your number, by the way?”  He pulled a ticket from his pocket, making sure it was still there.  On the ticket was a series of numbers, followed by the number sixty-three in bold letters.
    George shrugged.  “I don’t remember.  Sorry.”
    The man looked up, and then a glimmer of recognition lit up his face.  “George?”
    George studied the man’s face, unable to place it.  “I’m sorry . . . do I know you?”
    The man stood.  “Edgar Lowe, from District 89147.”
    George sat up at the edge of his seat, his face suddenly bringing to mind images of a dark haired little boy.  “Edgar?”  George and Edgar had been best friends in grade school, before Corporate America had taken over and the Segregates had become fully defined.  The boys had used to play by the creek, catching frogs and various flying bugs, before the heavy rains had flooded over the river and turned the area into a disease-infested marshland.  They had lost touch when