Hayley Borban's POV:
The rain beats down on the umbrella. It has been raining all morning. No, not just raining - pouring. I huddle under the umbrella with Elsa, my eight-year-old sister, next to the community home. Why are we out on this horrid morning, you ask? It's our turn to take out the trash. In the community home, this chore is passed daily from child to child. Rain or no rain, reaping or no reaping, the cycle is never disturbed.
Elsa and I have live in the community home for six years now. When we came, I was six, and Elsa was just two. Our parents had lost their jobs, and the peacekeepers had came for us. Our parents died a year later. Now, we're twelve and eight. This year's my first reaping, and I'm scared out of my mind. I only have three entries, but if they pick my name? What will happen to Elsa? What will happen to me?
I try to forget the reaping as we haul the garbage bag to the dump. My nose wrinkles as I smell the district's waste.
"Let's get this over with," I say.
Elsa, never one to speak much, nods in agreement, and we hurl the bags into the dump and return to the community home, where everyone is preparing for the reaping. I join my friend, Collia. She came here two years ago, and we've been best friends since.
"Are you ready?" I ask. There's no need to ask what for.
"No," she says. Silly question, I know. She's right. How could anyone be ready?
"At least you only have two entries," I say. "It's not much of a difference, but I have three. And next year I'll have six."
I get dressed, pulling on my old calico dress, and helping Elsa into hers. These dresses have been worn by the children in the community home for several generations now. They have been ripped and shredded and stitched back together countless times. I can count nine patches on mine, and I know there's more. But there's nothing else to wear.
Collia joins Elsa and me as we leave the community home. We leave our umbrellas behind, reluctantly - they're not allowed at the reaping. We get to the square, sign in, and find our spots. The reaping is soon to begin. I don't control it, but I hope and hope and hope that it won't be my name that's called.
Damour Ledd's POV:
"Good luck," my mother whispers to me as I join the other 13-year-olds. "You won't be picked, Damour. And if you are picked...you can win this." Her words echo in my head. Good luck. These words have many meanings. Don't be picked. Stay calm. Forget your father.
Yes, my father. It hurts to remember him. Last week, he got sick. The peacekeepers took him away, killed him for sure. Now my father is gone forever. Remembering him will only make my life harder, so I have to forget him. Good luck forgetting the man who raised you for thirteen years, Damour.
The reaping is starting. Our escort calls the first name.
"Hayley Borban!"
There is a yelp from the onlookers, from a small dark-skinned girl of seven or eight years. She stares, terrified, at the girl who is so clearly her older sister, going to the stage. Hayley's eyes are pooling, and as she reaches the stage she starts to sob. I imagine her fear, her uncertainty, and look away.
The escort approaches the second bowl.
You won't be picked, Damour.
Don't pick my name. Please, don't pick my name.
"Damour Ledd!"
I stumble backwards into a tall boy, who shoves me forwards.
I misheard, surely. She didn't really call my name. No, not me. She couldn't have. This can't be real.
But it is. I am pushed out of my section. A peacekeeper grabs my arms and leads me to the stage. I look into the terrified eyes of the girl, Hayley.
This must be a dream. This can't be happening.
I stick out my thin arm and grasp Hayley's hand. Our hands move up and down again, then fall to our sides. I give our district's people one last look, and we are led away.
