The real problem is food. Every ration is accounted for. Two Mickeys mean double the consumption, and that won’t go unnoticed for long.

Mickey8 steals what he can. Small portions from his own meals, nothing too obvious. But it’s not enough. Mickey7 is losing weight. And strength.

—This isn’t going to work, —Mickey8 says one night, sitting on the cold floor of their secret storage hideout.

Mickey7 watches him carefully. They’ve had this conversation before. Too many times.

—We’ll figure it out, —Mickey7 insists, though he doesn’t believe it himself.

Mickey8 snorts. He doesn’t believe it either.

—How much longer do you think we can keep this up? —Mickey8 asks—. They’ve already noticed the discrepancies in the rations. If Marshall finds out, she’ll kill us both.

Mickey7 doesn’t respond. Because he knows Mickey8 is right.

And then, the moment they’ve been dreading arrives.

Marshall summons Mickey8 to her office. Her expression is neutral, but her eyes are sharp like knives.

—Explain this, —she says, sliding a tablet toward him.