The motorcycle started up again. This time, Number Seven said nothing and simply rode on in silence.
She was not an outgoing person, and even she had not expected to talk so much with Kafka.
Perhaps she had spent too long patrolling the border alone, rarely meeting another woman she could talk to, and that was why she had opened up.
Or perhaps she had sensed something approachable about Kafka.
Number Seven found it a little strange. Kafka was clearly an escaped slave from the south, yet her speech and manners were anything but ordinary.
That was not the bearing of an escaped slave. If anything, she resembled Number Seven's Third Sister, a social butterfly who navigated banquets with ease.
In that case, Kafka's identity was probably not so simple.
Number Seven quietly made a mental note.
The motorcycle stopped again. This time, they had reached their destination: the Refugee Home.
From the outside, it looked more like a prison. Barbed wire lined its towering walls, and getting out would probably be difficult once they went inside.
Kafka studied the walls, wariness in her eyes.
Number Seven seemed accustomed to this reaction, so she explained:
"The Refugee Home was converted from a prison. You can think of it as an immigration detention center. After all, to the people living nearby, undocumented refugees are potential criminals, just like the old man you rescued earlier.
"So it's necessary to keep refugees together under supervision. It not only reassures the locals, but also protects you."
Until refugees obtained official status, they had no human rights. Under those circumstances, no one would care even if they died.
Number Seven paused, then continued:
"Of course, none of that changes the fact that this is a prison. It doesn't just look like one from the