And Chapter Seven. Chapter eight will be more erotic, I promise.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“We have a slot for this afternoon,” her mom says, glancing down at her phone to double-check the confirmation. “Why don’t you go out for a bit first?”

Riley’s blush deepens immediately. She shifts slightly in her seat, suddenly very aware of herself again.

“I dunno,” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m kinda embarrassed.”

Her mom gives her a patient look.

“Oh Riley,” she says gently, like she’s explaining something obvious. “You’re an Animal. Modesty and shame shouldn’t even be a factor anymore.”

Riley snorts quietly at that and looks down at the table.

“Easy for you to say,” she replies. “You’re not the one being processed in six days.”

“Well, you’re not spending the whole day inside,” her mom says after a moment. “Why not go see the neighbours for a bit?”

Riley thinks about that, her mind drifting almost immediately to the elderly woman who lives across the street. Mrs. Francis had mentioned cookies the last time she saw Riley outside, leaning over her garden fence and insisting she should come by sometime. She had always been kind to Riley, the sort of neighbor who remembered birthdays and sent over baked goods during holidays.
When Riley was younger, Mrs. Francis had even babysat a few times when her parents were out late. Riley remembers sitting on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders while the old woman insisted on feeding her way too many snacks.
The thought makes Riley nod slowly.

“Mrs. Francis invited me over for cookies,” she says. “I guess I could go see her.”

Her mom smiles immediately.

“That would be lovely,” she replies. “You know she loves you like a granddaughter.”

After breakfast Riley takes a long shower, letting the hot water run over her while the bathroom slowly fills with steam. She spends more time than usual washing, lingering over parts of her body she normally would have rushed past without thinking. Now she scrubs carefully, methodically, paying attention to every inch of skin that had been hidden beneath her clothes almost exactly a day ago.
There’s no real reason for the effort, not anymore. Still, the habit of wanting to look presentable refuses to disappear overnight.

No sense in looking like an Animal, even if she was one.

By the time she finishes and dries off, the clock on the wall is creeping toward ten. Riley steps outside a little while later, pausing on the front step as the cool air hits her skin. Instinctively, her eyes flick across the street toward Mr. Greern’s porch.

The chair is empty.

Not there.

Good.

Mrs. Francis answers the door with a delighted smile and immediately pulls Riley into a firm hug, the kind that squeezes tighter than Riley expects from someone her age.

“Hey Mrs. Francis,” Riley says loudly once they pull apart, automatically raising her voice since the old lady’s hearing had been fading for years. “Thanks for inviting me over.”

“No problem, kid,” Mrs. Francis replies, waving one hand dismissively like the whole thing hardly counts as a favor. “Park your butt on the sofa and I’ll bring you some milk and cookies.”

Despite her advanced age, she doesn’t really talk like most old ladies Riley knows. There’s no slow softness to her voice, no gentle grandmotherly tone. Mrs. Francis speaks bluntly, casually, like someone who’s spent most of her life around people who didn’t bother dressing their words up.

Riley had grown up listening to her stories about the years during the Famine, back when everything had been falling apart. According to Mrs. Francis, people didn’t live in neat neighborhoods back then. They gathered in small, rough little communities that felt more like clans than towns, everyone watching each other’s backs while the world outside kept getting worse.

That was before the System came along and saved everyone.

Riley’s eyes drift toward the wall as she steps further into the living room. The familiar rifle is still hanging on its stand, exactly where it has always been. The wood is worn smooth in places from years of handling, and the metal parts have that dull, practical look of something maintained carefully rather than polished for display.

She has no idea what kind of rifle it actually is. Mrs. Francis had tried explaining once, but the description hadn’t helped much. According to her, it was a “bastard contraption made out of too many other guns,” assembled from whatever parts people could scavenge or trade during the bad years.

So Riley had eventually stopped trying to figure out what type it was supposed to be.

Mrs. Francis had always shrugged whenever anyone asked about it.

“It shoots and kills assholes,” she would say. “That’s all I needed.”

That part had always scared Riley a little.

Mrs. Francis had killed people. Not just once, either. From the way she talked about those years, it sounded like something she had done often enough to get good at it.

The thought never quite fit with the version of her Riley saw now. These days she lived a quiet suburban life, baking cookies, tending her little garden, and happily collecting an ever-growing collection of neighborhood kids she treated like honorary grandkids.

The rifle on the wall didn’t quite match the smell of fresh cookies drifting from the kitchen.

But it was still there.

Mrs. Francis returns a moment later carrying a tray loaded with a tall stack of cookies, a glass pitcher full of milk, and an empty drinking glass balanced neatly beside them. Despite her age, the tray doesn’t wobble even slightly as she carries it across the room.

She sets it down on the coffee table with steady hands.

“Here you go,” she says. “Get some meat on your bones.”

Before Riley can react, Mrs. Francis reaches over and pinches the skin lightly over Riley’s ribcage, giving it a playful squeeze. A rough, throaty laugh follows as she pulls her hand back.

Then she lowers herself onto the sofa beside Riley like the whole exchange is perfectly ordinary.

“So,” Mrs. Francis says after a moment, watching Riley reach for the cookies, “how are you handling the transition?”

Riley takes a bite first, chewing quickly before answering. The cookie is warm and soft, the sweetness almost distracting for a second as she forces herself to swallow.

“Okay, I guess,” she says. “Had a bit of a meltdown yesterday.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” Mrs. Francis replies without hesitation.

She reaches forward and takes a cookie from the plate for herself, leaning back into the sofa cushions as she bites into it.

“I’m sorry to see it happen to you,” she continues, her tone calm but matter-of-fact. “But you’ve heard all my stories about what things were like before the System.”

She gestures vaguely with the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“This is better,” she says. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it to you right now.”

“Anyway,” Mrs. Francis says after a moment, brushing a few crumbs from her hands, “I was going to give you this if you ever aged out of the Lottery.”

She pushes herself up from the sofa with a quiet grunt and walks over to the television stand. Beneath it sits a small drawer, the kind people usually fill with remotes and loose batteries. She pulls it open and rummages inside for a second before lifting out a small, worn box.

“Since that isn’t happening,” she adds casually, “consider it a gift for your last seven days.”

She opens the box and pulls out a thick wad of folded bills.

Riley’s eyes go wide immediately.

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I can’t take that from you.”

Mrs. Francis snorts.

“Shut it,” she replies, pressing the money into Riley’s hand anyway. “With any luck I’ll die before you do.”

She shrugs.

“Can’t take it with me anyway.”

Riley’s hands tremble slightly as she takes the bills. The money feels heavier than she expected, the thick fold of paper pressing into her palm while she carefully separates the edges and starts counting.

There’s far more there than she thought at first glance.

When she finishes, she stares down at the stack in disbelief.

“Well over five hundred dollars,” she murmurs.

Her face turns pink as the number really sinks in.

“I’ve never held this much money,” Riley admits, sounding a little overwhelmed. She glances up at Mrs. Francis, still clutching the bills carefully between both hands. “Are you sure?”

Mrs. Francis snorts softly at that.

“When have I ever taken back a gift?” she says, reaching over and flicking Riley lightly on the forehead.

The quick tap makes Riley blink.

“When I give you something,” Mrs. Francis continues, “all you need to do is say thank you.”

Riley rubs her forehead with a small smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Francis.”

The old woman’s expression softens at that. She shifts closer on the sofa and slips one arm comfortably around Riley’s bare shoulders, pulling her in beside her like she’s done a hundred times before.

“You be brave for me, okay kiddo?” she says quietly.

Riley ends up spending most of the afternoon at Mrs. Francis’s house.

The time passes the way it usually does there, slowly and comfortably, the two of them talking while Riley keeps reaching for more cookies without really noticing how many she has already eaten.

The plate on the coffee table gradually empties while the pitcher of milk gets lighter every time Riley refills her glass.

At some point Mrs. Francis starts telling old stories again.

Eventually that leads to the scars.

She rolls up her sleeve first, exposing the long pale line running across her forearm. Riley has seen it plenty of times before, but Mrs. Francis still points at it like it’s a trophy.

“Knife,” she says casually.

That one leads to another.

Soon she’s lifting the hem of her shirt a little to show the puckered mark along her side, then turning her shoulder to reveal the one that looks like a small crater.

Riley has heard the story behind each of them at least a dozen times.

That doesn’t stop Mrs. Francis from explaining them again, describing the fights and the chaos of those years like someone remembering old road trips instead of people trying to kill each other over food.

By the time the afternoon begins slipping toward evening, Riley is full of cookies and milk.

Her stomach feels heavy and warm while the empty plate sits between them on the table.

Riley tucks the money carefully into the little pouch with her phone before leaving Mrs. Francis’s house.

She checks it once more before stepping outside, pressing the fabric flat against her hip to make sure the folded bills won’t slip out while she walks.

The afternoon air feels cooler now as she crosses the street toward home.

Halfway across the road her eyes drift automatically toward Mr. Greern’s porch.

He’s there.

He’s sitting in his usual chair with a mug in one hand, watching the street the same way he always does. The moment he notices Riley his attention sharpens, his eyes following her in a way that makes something tighten unpleasantly in her stomach.

The look in his eyes makes her uncomfortable.

When he pushes himself up from the chair and starts walking toward the edge of his porch, Riley immediately picks up her pace. She doesn’t wait to see if he’s actually coming over or just stretching his legs.

She crosses the rest of the road quickly and slips through her front door.

The door closes behind her before he even reaches the sidewalk.

“I’m ready to go!” Riley calls as she steps back inside the house.

Her voice carries down the hallway toward the kitchen. She drops her shoes near the door and walks in, still adjusting the strap of the small pouch resting against her hip.

The moment she sees her mom, Riley stops.

“Mom,” she blurts, her face immediately heating, “why are you naked?”

Her mom is sitting at the kitchen table beside Riley’s dad like nothing unusual is happening at all. She’s completely relaxed, one leg tucked under the other, looking perfectly comfortable in her own skin.

“Well,” she says casually, “if I’m going to be getting an Animal treatment, I might as well look the part.”

She leans back slightly in the chair and glances down at herself with an easy sort of confidence.

“I think I look pretty good for thirty-five, don’t you?” she adds, glancing between Riley and her husband.

Riley shifts awkwardly, unsure where to look for a second.

“I dunno,” she mutters back.

“Okay, we better get moving now,” her mom says, already standing up from the table. “I’ll grab a few things quickly. Go wait in the car.”

Riley hesitates in the doorway.

“But Mr. Greern is out there.”

Her mom presses the car keys into Riley’s hand. Riley takes them, though she still finds it strangely difficult to look directly at her mother right now.

“He won’t try anything,” her mom says calmly. “Go on.”

Riley grumbles under her breath as she opens the front door and steps back outside. The afternoon air feels cooler now, the quiet street stretching out in front of her exactly the same as it always does.

She doesn’t look toward the porch this time.

Instead she walks quickly across the short stretch of driveway, heading straight for the passenger side of their car. The keys jingle faintly in her hand as she reaches for the door handle.

Just as she pulls it, a hand slams the door shut.

The sharp sound makes her flinch.

“Riley,” a voice says beside her, one she recognizes immediately, “you owe me an apology.”

She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before turning her head.

“I’m sorry I called you a pig, Mr. Greern.”

“It’s very hurtful being talked to like that,” Mr. Greern says stiffly, his lips tightening as he looks down at her. “Especially by an Animal.”

The way he says the word makes Riley’s stomach churn.

There’s a little extra weight behind it, a slow emphasis that makes it sound less like a legal term and more like something dirty.

“Yeah,” Riley shoots back, folding her arms instinctively, “well it’s not fun being stared at by a pervert either.”

He rolls his eyes at her like she’s being dramatic.

“Back when I was your age we didn’t even give Animals seven days,” he says. His tone carries the smug certainty of someone who believes the past was tougher and therefore better. “Usually Enforcement would come and collect you the same day.”

Riley scoffs.

“What, are you gonna kidnap me and take me to processing now?” she asks, glaring at him. “You don’t scare me, you creepy—”

The slap cuts her off mid-word.

His hand cracks across her cheek hard enough that the sound echoes off the side of the car. The impact makes her head snap sideways and for a second the world tilts, a bright ringing filling her ears while her vision blurs slightly.

Riley stumbles sideways from the force of the slap, her shoulder bumping hard against the side of the car. For a second she just stands there, blinking while the ringing in her ears slowly fades and the sting spreads across her cheek.

Before she can straighten up, Mr. Greern grabs her wrist.

His fingers clamp down hard enough to hurt, the grip tight and possessive as he pulls her back toward him. Riley’s arm jerks forward with the motion, her balance still shaky as he drags her a step closer.

“Animals don’t speak to Humans like that,” he growls.

His voice has lost the lazy porch friendliness he usually hides behind. Now it sounds low and ugly, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to talk this way.

He leans slightly closer to her, still holding her wrist.

“Why don’t you and I go inside,” he says, his mouth twisting into a thin smile, as his hand grabs her budding breast painfully, “and maybe I’ll teach you the manners your parents didn’t?”

A gunshot cracks through the air like thunder.

The sound is so loud and sudden that Riley flinches instinctively. A chunk of turf explodes from the edge of the garden a few feet away, dirt and grass spraying outward where the bullet slams into the ground.

Mr. Greern jerks backward in fright, his grip loosening just enough for Riley to pull her wrist free.

Across the street, Mrs. Francis stands in her yard with the rifle braced against her shoulder. The old “bastard gun” looks heavy in her hands, but she holds it perfectly steady. Her posture is so still she might as well be carved out of stone.

“Hello, Mr. Greern,” she calls across the street in a voice full of mock friendliness. “Having your way with the Animals, are you?”

Mr. Greern turns toward her, still startled, anger quickly replacing the fear in his face.

“So what if I am?” he snaps defensively. “She can’t say no.”

Another shot cracks through the air.

This one lands closer. The bullet punches into the dirt near his shoe, spraying dust across the pavement.

Mrs. Francis calmly works the lever on the rifle, the metal clacking with a sharp, mechanical sound as she chambers the next round.

“She can’t,” she says evenly. “But I can for her.”

The barrel stays trained directly on him.

“Go back inside,” she adds, her voice flat now. “The third shot goes through your eye.”

Mr. Greern looks at Riley for a moment, his expression sour, then turns his head back toward Mrs. Francis and the rifle pointed straight at him.

For a second it looks like he might say something else.

Instead he lets out an irritated grunt and shoves Riley away from him. The push is sudden and rough, sending her stumbling backward across the driveway. She loses her footing and drops hard onto her bare butt, gravel biting sharply into her skin.

Mrs. Francis tracks him the entire time with the rifle.

The barrel never wavers as he backs away across the yard and climbs onto his porch. She keeps the gun trained on him until he disappears inside the house and the door slams shut behind him.

Only then does she lower the rifle slowly.

“Thank God for that,” the old woman mutters as she starts walking across the street. “Only had two bullets.”

Riley pushes herself up from the pavement, wincing slightly as she brushes small pieces of gravel from her butt cheeks with shaky hands. The sting from the slap is still burning across her face, and her heart hasn’t quite slowed down yet.

Mrs. Francis reaches her a second later.

She sets the rifle aside against the car and gently takes Riley by the chin, tilting her face upward so she can examine the red mark spreading across her cheek.

“You okay, kid?” she asks.

Riley takes a breath, her voice still a little unsteady.

“I am now.”