He hugs me.
"How did you find me?" I ask, stepping back, surprised by the hug.
"We finished for today, and Sevistine said you were in here." He shrugs, grasping tighter.
"Doesn't matter. It's good to see you. I really need you."
"For what?"
Hope, innocence, reason to keep going.
No, I can't say all that.
"Understanding," I say, letting out a brief sigh.
"You see, I can't help find your father's body if I don't understand anything… about anything, right?"
He slowly nods.
"I suppose that makes some sense."
"You can count, right?" I tilt my head, studying his face in my hand, adding it to my forever memory.
"Yeah. Of course I can."
"Can you help me with some things then?"
"Sure."
"You know your percentages, right?" I ask, guiding him to my study corner and sliding a piece of crumpled paper toward him.
"What is this?" he frowns, holding it against the stained-light above to get a closer look.
"This is my collection of knowledge thus far," I say vaguely. "It's okay if you don't understand it yet. I will teach you—all that I know. We can even play a little game with some numbers to help you understand."
He nods. "Okay."
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"If there were an imaginary hundred convicts, and thirty-three went missing, how many would remain?"
"Sixty-seven, right."
"Good. So that's thirty-three gone missing. What's that as a fraction of the total population?"
"Thirty-three… out of a hundred?"
"Yes. Now reduce it."
He frowns, whispering to himself. "Around one-third?"
"Perfect," I say excited.
"You're learning."
The quill scratches. Ink seeps into my cuticles—thick and blood as blue.
"And if one-third disappear every month," I continue, "how many remain after three?"
He leans forward, brow furrowed, the quill slightly shakes between nimble hands.
He pauses, lips counting in sealed silence.
Browns turn to green as the clouds gather, an overcast frown dressing the room in a fungal gown.
He looks up. Uncertain is his tone so he speaks softly.
"None?"
I smile.
"You understand perfectly, my boy."
I pat his back.
Tim, he grins back at me.
"Now," I speak further, "can you tell me what percentage of the convicts in this report have had their mana-cores removed? Take yer time."
Scanning the page he reads. "Zero. Zero percent of convicts."
"Really? That's strange," I murmur. "Statistically, you'd expect at least a few, especially since it's a punishment. Meaning they're already offenders, maybe even repeats."
I tap the next column. "How about in the resident population?"
He traces the lines with a finger. "Two in total. Out of… it says here five thousand."
"Go on."
"So that's one out of twenty-five hundred. Then half of that is half out of seventeen-fifty… half again—quarter out of eight-seven-five…" He squints, muttering under his breath. "I can't halve that again.
Wait—what if I divide by five? Divide by five again—one twenty out of thirty-five…"
He pauses, thinking hard. "That's—um—zero point three five percent?"
I stare at him for a moment, then shake my head softly. "Close, but not quite, Timothy. Here, let me show you a little trick I use myself."
He blinks, confusedly.
"Look here," I say, reaching over to take the paper and his quill, drawing a thin line beneath his numbers.
"Two out of five thousand… if you write it like this, you break the equation into smaller steps. How many twos in zero? None—put a zero there. How many twos in five? Two, with one left over."
I glance at him. "See? Easy method of division, small number. So small you could squish like ant."
He traces the numbers with his finger and draws. "I see, so it's zero point… zero four?"
I smile thinly. "You see, Timothy? Easy. It's so easy when you're just that smart, kid."
"No, it's just you're good at this. Why don't you teach the class?"
"..."
"I haven't thought about that quite yet."
"You should."
He makes a good point. My education most likely far surpasses everyone here—but I really need to find this body first.
Tim as if reading my mood glances at another sheet of paper.
"What's this?" he holds a report out towards me.
I grab it and read. "Life expectancy of convicts by gender?"
"What's that all mean?"
"That one's a bit more complex, you know. Do you still want to know?"
"Yeah. I want to learn from you."
"Alright," I say, turning a page toward him. "Life expectancy means how long, on average, someone is expected to live. You gather enough data—deaths, ages, causes of death—and this allows you to predict when a person is most likely to die in passing."
He smiles eagerly. "That sounds so cool."
"I know right, Read it out loud for me. I'll explain how it works for ya."
"'Twenty to twenty-six seems to be the interquartile range for women,'" he reads slowly, mouthing out the new vocabulary, "'with one standard div-in-ation within two years before and after, and at two-standard div-in-ations the age reaches a near thirty years.'"
It's pronounced deviation, but it just sounds so funny when he says it so confidently wrong like that. I can't bring myself to correct him.
"Good," I say, rubbing my chin, faking my bemusement. "So that means half of the convict women die between ages twenty and twenty-six. A few live to thirty, but not many. You see how steep the drop is here on the curve?"
He looks uneasy but keeps going. "'Twenty-two to twenty-eight for men… same standard divin-ation, two years on each side of the mean. Two-standard divinations give the upper limit of age, thirty-two years.'"
I guide his finger over the bell-curve. "So you see here, the mean: that is the middle, think of it as the technical word for the average number— within this section, that is the mean, or average, most of the male convicts die within this age-group between twenty-two and twenty-eight years," I murmur. "Even fewer reach thirty."
Tim frowns. "That's not very old."
"No… not long at all," I say quietly, shaking my head.
I trace a line further down the page, my finger smearing the ink. My stomach tightens. Half the convicts here won't even see the full light from thirty stars. That really puts things into perspective.
"Now to continue this here, Tim—this is the camp's total average lifespan." I point toward another drafted column.
"Without the convicts or infants taken into consideration, residents in this settlement live to about forty-two years old."
He stares back at me, blinking even wilder.
I swallow my saliva. "That means, on average, someone arriving here at twenty-five years old will live about seventeen years until they cark it."
I let the number sink in.
"But when you include the convicts…" I pause, rubbing his back, my voice growing deeper. "Men's life expectancy drops to twenty-nine years, and women's falls to below twenty-six. That tells us, the combined lifetime someone experiences after arriving at Settler's camp is…"
"…"
I pause.
"Only nine years."
Tim blinks. "Nine years of what?"
"Nine years until death," I reaffirm.
He stares at the floor. "So… my father was forty-three when he died. Does that mean he was one of the lucky ones?"
"An outlier," I subtly correct. "But lucky he was, yes. Still part of the same curve, way out over here." I plot a red dot on the scrawled graph.
I lean back, staring at the numbers. Seventeen years lived as a regular resident. Nine including convicts. That's all this place gives you—before processing you into a grass-fed canterberry soup.
And that's only if you survive childhood.
Infant mortality is brutal—the youngest die so often it makes the town school look like a blasted retirement village.
With less nagging, I suppose - No wonder the cemetery is located so closely.
I watch Tim process the information.
"..."
"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have shown you this." I reach for the paper in his hands, but he resists.
"No, I want—I need to help you."
"..."
"Well, if that's the case, here look at this." I pause, studying his expression again, as I slide another document across the floor.
"Tell me what you see here. Any thoughts, ideas, key insights. I want it all."
He leans closer, lips moving as he reads through the fine print.
-------------------------------------
Children — Career Selections:
Mines ............. 30%
Administrative ........... 10%
Logistics ............. 20%
No Employment History ....... 40%
Delinquency Rate ......... 20%
------------------------------------
------------------------------------
Orphan — Career Selections:
Mines ............. 30%
Administrative ........... 10%
Logistics ............. 20%
No Employment History ....... 40%
Delinquency Rate ......... 20%
------------------------------------
He looks up.
I tilt my head. "So, what is it?"
"Well," he begins slowly, "most of these orphans here are taught at home by the Three Sisters."
"Who?"
He hesitates, rubbing at his arm.
"Up north, it's dirty demon territory so their skin goes black, or so I've heard. That's what the drunks say, anyway. Lots of them came from there. The matron gets extra strict on them in class… for some reason. Poor Umer and Evon—we try to stand up for them, but she lashes at us too."
I tap the edge of the paper. "So these Three Sisters… they take care of the northern orphans?"
He nods.
"Yeah. Most of them. Keep them real safe on the east-side of town."
"I see," I contemplate.
"And how would you suggest we increase the steady employment of the children when they become adults in the long term?"
He scratches his left cheek.
"I'm not so sure about that. But one thing I've noticed — lots of kids bringing drinks into class lately."
I blink. "Drinks?"
"Yeah," he says softly. "From the kitchens, sometimes. They share them behind the stock-house, and even in the poo-box. Even the younger ones. It's real annoying to piss in there."
"I see."
He hesitates, shifting on the floor. "And, um… I've heard bad things from the previous school seniors about going into the mines."
"What kinds of things?"
He glances toward the ceiling mural. "They wouldn't say. Just… that it involves Giana."
Your name pops up again, Giana. Looks like you're the first name I will need to pay extra attention too. You better hope I don't find something that I don't like.