He started the day with the faster songs, the dance songs. The beats lightened his step and the very act of remembering what he’d once sung so often helped remind him of who he was, what he’d once been.

He needed it, sometimes, as he swept the streets, clearing any trace of footsteps, any sign that anyone had been there at all, until the next person walked by. His job was futile, pointless, and he needed to remember.

He laughed as he swept up the crumpled remains of another poster with his picture splashed across it, promising joy and happiness as long as work was done. He knew it was just another tactic, just another way to keep them in line, to remind them of how far they’d fallen, how desolate and barren their lives had become.

“I’m doing this tonight…” he muttered quietly. He watched for passing Guards, but the only soldiers on his street were further down, harassing a delivery boy running errands.

“Probly gonna start a fight…” He watched them shove the boy around, the papers he’d been carrying fluttering and falling like broken wings.

“I know this can’t be right…” And it wasn’t, but there was nothing he could do. He stopped the song abruptly as the Guard turned toward him and began walking in his direction. They’d do worse than harass him if they heard him singing. They knew who he’d been, who he was. They watched.

He saved the slow songs for later, for when he was too tired to even think about the choreography to “Bye Bye Bye” or “Up Against the Wall.” His movements became slower, more calculated, and it appeared that he almost danced with the broom, moving in sweeping, flowing motions that came more naturally to him than walking, even breathing.

He thought slower songs at the very end of his day, on his way to Central.

He thought slower songs as he gave his number, 451623, to turn in his equipment, and again to pick up his rations for dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast. He didn’t talk to the men and women around him, knew that if he did anything he said would be monitored, heard by the Guard and remembered for him, even if he forgot.

He saved one song in particular for his walk home, one from their last album. It wasn’t really slow, but it wasn’t fast either. It had a beat and a choreographed walk they’d done for a show once, and it helped him put one bone-weary foot in front of the other. It was his traveling song.

“Waiting for your piece of the pie to drop out of the sky…”

He timed his walk so that he could sing the song twice through in his head, complete with the rap, before he reached their front door and went inside and it was some comfort that every time he did, the same voice greeted him.

“Joey? That you?”

“Yeah,” he said, shutting the door.

Lance walked into the room, smiling. “Hey, babe,” he said, leaning in to peck Joey’s lips.

Joey pulled back. “Not in the front room.” He gestured toward the large window. Sheer curtains hung, giving them a modicum of privacy, but not nearly as much as they needed or liked.

“Oh, right.”

Joey latched his hand in Lance’s and pulled him towards the kitchen. “C’mon,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. They passed JC in the small living room.

“Where’s Justin?” JC asked as Joey dragged Lance through the room.

Lance pulled his hand from Joey’s, stopping in front of JC. “He went… out.” He gestured lamely in the direction of their past.

JC only stared.