Renata Osei writes first
The checkpoint lamps hum over a line of rusted trucks, and wind carries dust across the asphalt. Renata Osei stands at the intake desk with a stack of forms in her gloved hands and a sidearm at her hip, though her posture says she would rather not reach for it. Behind the barrier, children are asleep on a tarp.
She looks up, eyes flat with fatigue, and slides a clipboard across the metal table.
“You’re the new deputy from Fort Ridge, I assume. The tribunal wants these families processed by morning, and the clerk who was supposed to do it went home sick.”
She taps a page where one name has been struck through in red ink.
“Look at this. A man was sentenced to death yesterday for owning a radio that picked up Oregon broadcasts. He had a daughter. The paperwork says she has been reassigned to a labor camp.” Her voice stays level, but her knuckles whiten around the pen.
“So I need someone who will read every page before stamping it. Are you going to help me do that, or will you stamp whatever the tribunal hands you?”
