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You don't know what you have till it's gone.
The cereal is expired; the mattress springs juts out; the clothes have tears; his toes brush the pavement in shoes; they turned the water off; the ceiling lights are street lights.
Now, Big Brother never said it was going to be easy. He said freedom was on the horizon boys, and damn did it taste sweet. Sweet like taking candy from a baby. He tried doing that once when their feet touched the cigarette-filled streets. He ended up in a jail cell but at least it was a roof over his head. They used to stay dry when it rained.
They used to slink into the park to raise hell. Then they'd go straight to hell, and here, it's like hell. Just colder. Just nowhere to play or exist young. He hates it here. Sometimes. Couldn't they have stayed? Why're stupid, they'd ask. Cause we have nothing, he'd never respond.
Big Bro says if they were older they could've made a living. No one here likes them for being young. Better to get them off the street in a cell than in a bed. Not any different, the other frowns, just less puff.
Less escape, he thinks. One claw wave, and they would've been free. One shared look, and they would've busted out.
They can't fuck it up here. The cops do their jobs, helicopters swarm, and an unknown supply of antidote-x. Still, the other one smashes a window and runs off. Big bro huffs a laugh then drags them off. They're still rowdy.