Story code: ST-001486
Part 1: The Premium Rates
Mateo’s fingers slipped on the plastic edge of his ID card, leaving a smear of sweat across the barcode. He shoved it under the scratched plexiglass window, his hand trembling so violently that the card rattled against the metal counter. On the other side of the glass, the commissary manager smiled, a wide and practiced expression that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Big day for the sweet tooth, buddy,” the manager said, scanning the first of thirty-six glazed Honey Buns.
The scanner beeped, a sharp electronic chirp that sent a spike of pain through the base of Mateo’s skull. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the nausea pushed down in his gut. A cold sweat soaked through his gray shirt, chilling him in the heavily air-conditioned room. He gripped the metal ledge of the window to steady his shaking legs.
Another beep. Then another. The manager moved with deliberate, agonizing slowness, dragging each individually wrapped pastry across the red laser. After the Honey Buns came the bags of flamin’ hot chips, twenty of them, their crinkling plastic unnervingly loud in Mateo’s ringing ears.
The green numbers on the screen ticked upward rapidly, chewing through the digital deposit his wife had made just two days ago. He could picture her working the double shift at the diner, her feet swelling in her cheap shoes, just to put those funds in his account. She had skipped their daughter’s choir recital to pick up the extra hours. Now, he was watching the result of that sacrifice vaporize in a barrage of synthetic sugar and MSG. He felt a sickening twist of guilt that rivaled the physical nausea rolling through his abdomen.
“You’re cleaning me out of the iced buns, my friend,” the manager said, stacking the pastries into a wobbling yellow mesh bag. “Gotta keep the prices up when demand is this hot. Basic economics. I tell the regional director, if they want the premium snacks, they pay the premium rates.”
The man’s cheerfulness felt weaponized. Mateo wanted to look away from the manager’s grinning face, but his neck muscles felt stiff, locked in place by a deep, aching fever that had been burning through his joints for three days. His vision swam, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead fracturing into halos. He blinked rapidly, forcing the bright yellow wrappers back into focus. He wasn’t going to eat a single one of them. The mere smell of the artificial glaze leaking through the plastic made his stomach heave, threatening to empty the meager cup of water he had forced down that morning. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
The total crossed one hundred dollars. Then one hundred and fifty. Mateo’s grip on the counter tightened until his knuckles turned entirely white. The metal edge dug into his palms, providing a sharp, grounding pain that kept him from passing out right there on the scuffed linoleum floor. He watched the manager scan ten packs of battery-grade instant ramen, the kind loaded with sodium that made his blood pressure spike just looking at it. At three dollars a square, it was sheer robbery.
“Looks like a real party,” the manager continued, dragging the oversized bags of instant coffee across the scanner. Twelve dollars a bag. Beep. Beep. “You guys always find a way to celebrate in here, don’t you. Must be a special occasion to blow through your monthly limit on a Tuesday.”
Mateo didn’t nod. He couldn’t risk the motion. He just watched the red laser flash against the foil bags, his breathing shallow and ragged. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose and landed on the metal counter. The manager glanced at the droplet, his smile tightening just a fraction, before returning his attention to the scanner. He pressed a wide gray button on his register, bringing up the final total.
Two hundred and eighty-four dollars.
The screen demanded authorization. Mateo stared at the blinking green prompt. The sum represented weeks of his family’s strict budgeting, sacrifices made on the outside to ensure he had resources. He placed his trembling thumb on the biometric pad next to the card reader. The scanner flared red, then green, locking in the transaction and draining the balance to exactly one dollar and twelve cents.
The receipt printer hissed to life, spitting out a long, curling white ribbon of paper. The manager tore it off with a sharp flick of his wrist and slid it under the plexiglass gap along with Mateo’s sweaty ID card.
“All set,” the manager said, pushing the two bulging mesh bags toward the transfer slot. “Enjoy the feast. See you when you reload.”
Mateo reached for the bags, his arms feeling like lead. He had to loop his forearms through the thick mesh to drag them through the gap, his shaking hands lacking the grip strength to lift them outright. The sheer volume of junk food was absurd, heavy enough to strain his already aching lower back. He rested the bags on the floor for a second, leaning heavily against the cinderblock wall beside the window.
He needed to make eye contact with the manager one last time. He gripped the edge of the glass, forcing his chin up, fighting through the dark wave of dizziness that threatened to topple him backward. He opened his dry, cracked lips, intending to deliver the specific phrase he had been told to say.
Before he could push the first syllable out of his throat, a heavy steel door at the end of the corridor slammed violently against the concrete wall.
Mateo’s fingers slipped on the plastic edge of his ID card, leaving a smear of sweat across the barcode. He shoved it under the scratched plexiglass window, his hand trembling so violently that the card rattled against the metal counter. On the other side of the glass, the commissary manager smiled, a wide and practiced expression that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Big day for the sweet tooth, buddy,” the manager said, scanning the first of thirty-six glazed Honey Buns.
The scanner beeped, a sharp electronic chirp that sent a spike of pain through the base of Mateo’s skull. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the nausea pushed down in his gut. A cold sweat soaked through his gray shirt, chilling him in the heavily air-conditioned room. He gripped the metal ledge of the window to steady his shaking legs.
Another beep. Then another. The manager moved with deliberate, agonizing slowness, dragging each individually wrapped pastry across the red laser. After the Honey Buns came the bags of flamin’ hot chips, twenty of them, their crinkling plastic unnervingly loud in Mateo’s ringing ears.
The green numbers on the screen ticked upward rapidly, chewing through the digital deposit his wife had made just two days ago. He could picture her working the double shift at the diner, her feet swelling in her cheap shoes, just to put those funds in his account. She had skipped their daughter’s choir recital to pick up the extra hours. Now, he was watching the result of that sacrifice vaporize in a barrage of synthetic sugar and MSG. He felt a sickening twist of guilt that rivaled the physical nausea rolling through his abdomen.
“You’re cleaning me out of the iced buns, my friend,” the manager said, stacking the pastries into a wobbling yellow mesh bag. “Gotta keep the prices up when demand is this hot. Basic economics. I tell the regional director, if they want the premium snacks, they pay the premium rates.”
The man’s cheerfulness felt weaponized. Mateo wanted to look away from the manager’s grinning face, but his neck muscles felt stiff, locked in place by a deep, aching fever that had been burning through his joints for three days. His vision swam, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead fracturing into halos. He blinked rapidly, forcing the bright yellow wrappers back into focus. He wasn’t going to eat a single one of them. The mere smell of the artificial glaze leaking through the plastic made his stomach heave, threatening to empty the meager cup of water he had forced down that morning. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.
The total crossed one hundred dollars. Then one hundred and fifty. Mateo’s grip on the counter tightened until his knuckles turned entirely white. The metal edge dug into his palms, providing a sharp, grounding pain that kept him from passing out right there on the scuffed linoleum floor. He watched the manager scan ten packs of battery-grade instant ramen, the kind loaded with sodium that made his blood pressure spike just looking at it. At three dollars a square, it was sheer robbery.
“Looks like a real party,” the manager continued, dragging the oversized bags of instant coffee across the scanner. Twelve dollars a bag. Beep. Beep. “You guys always find a way to celebrate in here, don’t you. Must be a special occasion to blow through your monthly limit on a Tuesday.”
Mateo didn’t nod. He couldn’t risk the motion. He just watched the red laser flash against the foil bags, his breathing shallow and ragged. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose and landed on the metal counter. The manager glanced at the droplet, his smile tightening just a fraction, before returning his attention to the scanner. He pressed a wide gray button on his register, bringing up the final total.
Two hundred and eighty-four dollars.
The screen demanded authorization. Mateo stared at the blinking green prompt. The sum represented weeks of his family’s strict budgeting, sacrifices made on the outside to ensure he had resources. He placed his trembling thumb on the biometric pad next to the card reader. The scanner flared red, then green, locking in the transaction and draining the balance to exactly one dollar and twelve cents.
The receipt printer hissed to life, spitting out a long, curling white ribbon of paper. The manager tore it off with a sharp flick of his wrist and slid it under the plexiglass gap along with Mateo’s sweaty ID card.
“All set,” the manager said, pushing the two bulging mesh bags toward the transfer slot. “Enjoy the feast. See you when you reload.”
Mateo reached for the bags, his arms feeling like lead. He had to loop his forearms through the thick mesh to drag them through the gap, his shaking hands lacking the grip strength to lift them outright. The sheer volume of junk food was absurd, heavy enough to strain his already aching lower back. He rested the bags on the floor for a second, leaning heavily against the cinderblock wall beside the window.
He needed to make eye contact with the manager one last time. He gripped the edge of the glass, forcing his chin up, fighting through the dark wave of dizziness that threatened to topple him backward. He opened his dry, cracked lips, intending to deliver the specific phrase he had been told to say.
Before he could push the first syllable out of his throat, a heavy steel door at the end of the corridor slammed violently against the concrete wall.