Stebbins had never been good for much.
He was a burden. And a bastard. A lonely little boy in his mother's old jeans and sweatshirts. He didn't know too many people, but it seemed they all knew about him. The kids in school picked on him: tripped him in the halls, stole his books, slammed his locker shut as he was getting his books for class.
He ate lunch in the library, his jelly sandwiches wrapped in napkins as he read through his lunch hour. He shoved the sandwiches in his pockets and ate between classes instead. He didn't want to spill on the books.
And when he got home, the Major- his father- was there. And he asked how Stebbins' walking was going, and then timed to see how fast he could get to the store and back. And then to the library. And then to the freeway. Each week the walks got longer.
Stebbins knew why.
He was no stranger to the Long Walk. He watched it every year, and once he saw the ending up close. And it didn't really bother him. Neither did it excite him, as it seemed to do to the rest of the crowd.
Maybe because he knew that would be him.
He sent in his form when he was seventeen years old, and knew he was going to get in. After all, his father approved all walkers, and how could he resist including his little rabbit?