Kate Dickinson ’23
The Light Jener sat in front of the caged light, waiting for it to blink, beep, do something. “Your meal.” He took it, not taking his eyes off the light even as he ate. It had been years since he looked at anything else, but he didn’t know that. If he had to guess, he would have said a month. Three, at most. He was always scared of blinking. Blinking meant he might miss something, which meant— He didn’t know what would happen if he missed something. He didn’t want to find out. It was a fairly simple job. Watch the light, listen for sounds. If anything happens, hit the button. He had seen the button, once, when he was first brought in. It was big and red, he thought. Though that might have been because the light was big and red. He was pretty sure the button wasn’t caged. That would make it difficult to press. He carefully placed his tray on the floor next to him. If he just dropped it, the clatter might drown out any sound that could indicate the button needed pressing. He made sure not to take his eyes off the light. His meals had been coming less and less frequently, but he thought he was just tired. It had been a while since he had slept. That’s where the thought stopped. He didn’t think about or remember that he hadn’t slept since he first saw the light. There were drugs in his food. They kept him awake, made sure he didn’t think too hard about the wrong things. He didn’t know this of course. Maybe he would have figured it out if the drugs hadn’t addled his brain beyond recognition. He had been clever once before. That’s why they chose him for the light. He would know the signal, know when to push the button. The light was his life, his purpose. Maybe he would get an award once he pushed the button, starting—preventing—
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