“You don’t really want to be here, do you?” They sat by a polluted stream, throwing bread to ducks. Pökler’s stomach was upset from ersatz coffee and tainted meat. His head ached. “It’s here or the camp,” her face stubbornly aside. “I don’t really want to be anywhere. I don’t care.” “Ilse.” “Do you like it here? Do you want to be back under your mountain? Do you talk to the elves, Franz?” “No, I don’t enjoy it where I am”—Franz?—“but I have, I have my job. . . .” “Yes. So do I. My job is being a prisoner. I’m a professional inmate. I know how to get favors, who to steal from, how to inform,
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