That was the horror that ran over Carita at the sight of the money. Not a holy horror of the wrath of God. But a petty and sordid horror of losing her job and her reputation for honesty. A worldly horror. A shameful horror. A pitiful, worthless horror when compared to the value of her immortal soul.
“What’s best for you is have the babe, take the money, and leave. It’s not right, but what other choice do you have?”
Work was the only imperative on the Wall. Work was life: grinding, slogging, muscle- and soul-whittling life. Not-work was German shepherds, an avalanche of guardia abuse, twobafour shifts.
When the cold reached your mind, you had already spread a blue map over your dreams. On the map, you made the earth, the sea, and every living thing so that you would be worshiped.
“Frankly, I’m concerned for my daughter’s safety. Monty explained about the teeth and the nails but how docile is he? He’s already grabbed my daughter’s arm.”
