The Ones Who Walk Towards Omelas
March 2026
Previously: The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas
On the road from Omelas, about a day’s journey away, there sits a kind old man. He sits at a table laden with fresh water, and food, and maps and phones and first aid kits and all sorts of other supplies a new refugee will want.
Today’s refugee is a teenage boy. He is flushed, pleased to be free of the burden of owing his happiness to torture. He walks up to the table confidently and takes a bottle of water.
“You’re the welcome committee, huh? Well, I did it. I walked away from that godforsaken place and those evil people. Is this the part where we shake hands and celebrate?”
“We can shake hands.” They do. The old man is bemused, and the boy notices his ironic smile.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Depends on what you consider wrong.”
“Torture. I consider torture wrong. I saw that poor little girl being tortured, and within a week, I knew I couldn’t stay there.”
“If it’s torture you hate, I’m not sure you’ll like what’s out there any better. In Omelas, it’s only one child who is tortured. Out there, there are millions who suffer.”
“But at least it’s random! And there are freedoms! It’s not part of a state-sanctioned policy to explicitly and brutally torture one child in exchange for everyone else’s happiness.”
“Yes, freedom and intention counts for a lot. But you should take my number. When things get hard out there, call me. We can talk. I’ve been in your shoes.”
The boy nods, looking serious, a little less like a boy. He gnaws on his cheek as he walks away.
Today’s refugee is a pregnant woman. She is panting. One hand is on her belly, the other is rubbing her side. She drags herself to the table and sits down.
“You probably shouldn’t be walking. I can call you a taxi.”
“Can you? Thank you. That would be great. I should have planned this better. I just… I can’t stop thinking about my baby and how she’s not so different from the kid I saw in the cell, and I… I just couldn’t take it anymore. I ran. Look, I didn’t even put on proper sneakers.” She sticks her feet out, and sure enough, her swollen feet are in sandals.
He hands her a bottle. “Drink. The taxi will be here in half an hour.” She drinks gratefully, but almost before she’s done, she starts talking again.
“A kid like my kid, can you believe it? A poor, innocent, little kid. What kind of a mother would I be if I pretended like that system was okay in front of my child? How could I soothe my crying child knowing that another mother out there couldn’t?” He sighs.
“I know it’s hard to think about. Unfortunately, it won’t get any easier out there. What’s the population of Omelas now, a million or so? So back there, the one-millionth of the suffering of a child lay on your conscience. Out there, the entire suffering of your own child will lay on your conscience.”
She gets angry now. “My baby will not suffer as much as that poor soul in the dungeon.”
“No, she won’t. But she will suffer. The world out there is not like Omelas. When things get hard, call me.”
Today’s refugee is a middle-aged man. He rises over the horizon, and the old man can hardly believe his teary eyes.
“Son.”
“DAD?”
They hug. He hasn’t seen his son since he was thirteen. A mere boy. He had put off telling his son about the secret of Omelas until the last possible second, but at thirteen, he could wait no longer. If he didn’t do it, someone else would. So he told his son, and the look of betrayal he saw in his eyes cut him to the core. Within a month, he’d left.
“I am sorry for leaving. I am so sorry. Tell me what I missed.” He is sobbing. Gasping, shaking. All this time he’s been at this table, he never let himself even think about his son, let alone this. It was too much to hope for. He only dreamed about it, in fleetingly beautiful flashes that both healed and hurt.
“I am sorry I didn’t come to find you before now. I wasn’t brave enough.”
“You are brave. You are here now.”
They hug each other for a long time, and talk for days. Eventually, his son walks on, but he calls and visits often for the rest of their days.
Today’s refugee is prepared. He carries a backpack full of supplies, and he doesn’t need to stop at the table, but he stops anyway. He looks worried.
“Is it worth it to walk away?”
“It depends on what you want.”
“I want there to be less suffering in the world.”
“Then you should go back.”
“To save the child?”
“To make the child’s sacrifice worth it. Make Omelas bigger.”
“What the– you can’t be serious.”
“That one child protects all of Omelas. It doesn’t matter whether Omelas has a million people or a billion. If a billion people move from out there to Omelas, the amount of suffering in the world lessens.”
“But the child’s suffering doesn’t.”
“You cannot save the child, but you can save everyone else.”
“The billion people who move into Omelas will feel as bad as I do.”
The old man smiles indulgently. “No, more likely, they will feel as bad as your neighbors do. Which is to say, almost not at all.”
The man thinks for a long time. Then he gets up and he walks back towards Omelas. He still looks worried.
Today’s refugee is an old woman. She walks with a cane, halting but confident. When she comes closer, she stares at him in recognition.
“You.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“No. I know you. You are the boy I saw. Down there. In the dungeon.”
“Oh.”
“That was you, wasn’t it? Oh god, it was you. I haven’t been able to forget those eyes.”
“Yes. Yes, it was me.”
“You seem… better?”
“Yes. I am.”
“I’m sorry for what we did to you.”
“No, no. I did it to myself.”
“What do you mean? You were just a child.”
“No, not exactly. I grew up in Omelas, and I left when I couldn’t stand it anymore, but after a few years, I chose to go back.”
“How? Why?”
“There are so few places in the world that are happy. Omelas is worth saving. Not at the cost of hurting innocent children, but I wasn’t a child. I volunteered. There are ways. Out there, they have the technology to change your body. For a few years, I became a child.”
“You signed up? Why did they never tell us you volunteered?”
“They can’t; there are rules to the magic. But these days, all of the kids are volunteers like me. Does it change things for you? Do you want to go back?”
She thinks for a long time. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I still don’t know if I could stand it.”
“You don’t have to decide now. Take my number. When things get hard out there, call me.”
Comments
 | commenter03948Omelas YIMBY arc, lfg!!! |
 | commenter44905It seems a bit too convenient that there are “rules to the magic” that mean the volunteering has to be kept under wraps. If I put my mind to it, I can think of some reasons why, but I think this should really have been explained in the text:
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