"What is it?" Marie asked the older woman, her voice barely a whisper on the suddenly tense and still air. "Have we been discovered?"

Wilma shook her head slowly. "Not yet," she replied, though she was nervously chewing her lower lip. "But that's not to say the Elders aren't getting suspicious. The Food Collectors have noticed how Jaime isn't at his house right now; it's almost past curfew."

At this point, Jaime himself, who had been listening with rapt attention, grew embarrassed. He withdrew slightly, carefully removing Trent from where the Five had been snoring gently on his lap, before standing up to his full height.

"I suppose I'd better get going," Jaime mumbled, ashamed, as he adjusted his tunic slightly on his shoulders. "I have to put up some sort of front."

Marie began to rise on her own wobbly legs. "If the Food Collectors are going to peer into our house, I might as well be there, too," she explained hastily as she arose. "We can go without arousing suspicion, though."

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The sun, as she perceived, was shining the next morning, its light streaming onto Marie's russet-red hair as she bicycled her way over to The Giver's dwelling behind the Community. She was going toward the south, on the same pathway she had used previously when journeying to Isabel's house. The familiar drab concrete and asphalt of the Community disappeared smoothly into the sunset as she biked away, fading first to a stretch of soft cement before receding entirely. After that came green grass and small plants with purple buds, rolling effortlessly on to reveal a few tall sticklike growths with drooping branches and abandoned buckets pegged into their barks. Trees, Marie perceived out of the blue, thistles, weeds.

There were many other varieties of tall sticklike growths (trees, Marie realised), too, or so Marie noticed as she gazed all around her surroundings. Short white-barked trees vied along the pathway with spreading, leafy trees with unusually-shaped leaves. She quickly turned around as to glimpse one of the tall trees with a bucket hooked into its bark. I wonder what those buckets are for, Marie thought, scrutinising the silver metal. She braked the bike and made her way over to the tree, absently rubbing its bark with the palm of her right hand. Carefully, she unhooked the top of the bucket from where it had been pegged into the tree's bark; it was pretty heavy when she chanced to remove it. Marie pulled open the cap that concealed the top of the bucket and peered at its contents – oddly enough, the metallic depths were completely filled in a small, slick coat of pale, yellowish liquid. She replaced the bucket and frowned, her nose wrinkled as she thought about it.

Maples, oaks, birches, willows. They must have been different kinds of trees. Looking around, Marie tried to discern which was which, but to no avail. Still slightly confused, she remounted her silvery bicycle and resumed her journey.

Why haven't I noticed all this plant life before? Marie found herself thinking as she neared The Giver's small, cosy dwelling among the seemingly neverending spread of grass. She tried to figure out a solution to her problem, but when none came, she shrugged it off and continued onward.

In a little, the square white dwelling had risen up above her. Marie dismounted the bike and carefully pushed it into the steel port beside the dwelling's pleasant custard-coloured brick wall. She stepped through the open door, hoping this was the right place as she did so. Sure enough, a quick glance around the piece told her she was indeed inside The Giver's house.

"Hello, Marie," came a voice from the shadows.

It was The Giver, without a shadow of a doubt. A smile flickered around Marie's lips as she followed him into the room where they had been sitting previously, the one with the fireplace. Right now, as it was daytime, the fire had been extinguished and the tunnel-like entrance dusted over with a smattering of soot.

But, lo and behold, a surprise assaulted Marie when she entered the room – Cecelia! The newchild was asleep at the moment, lying comfortably in a small wooden apparatus The Giver had set up beside the bed where Marie had awoken previously. She blinked as she gazed upon the crib; two smooth pieces of wood were located near the bottom. The result: Cecelia was rocking smoothly back and forth as she dozed.

Rockers, warmth, love, peace… This barrage of new words flew at Marie as soon as she set foot in the room. It was odd; she could tell that the slivers of wood under the crib were rockers, but what about the others? Warmth, love, peace… They sounded more like good things – no, good qualities in people – than material things. Then, suddenly, she knew. She was jolted by a force of sudden, amazing reconnaissance. This was warmth! This was love! This was peace! The words had always lain there in the back of her head, with little impact on the way she thought or felt. But now, Marie realised, they were the feelings she could feel welling through her conscious self now.

She went over to Cecelia and smoothed one hand over her yellowish curls, matted against the pillows in her sleep. The Giver followed, the smile curling around his mouth crinkling the skin around his eyebrows. Marie looked up as he approached before looking back down at her tiny One and murmuring smooth sounds to her.

"What happened to my father, Jonas?" she asked him without looking up. Cecelia turned slightly in her sleep; Marie traced a curving pattern the newchild's shoulder with one finger before slowly raising her head as to look into The Giver's caring aqua-blue eyes. "Why don't we have his memories any more?" She knew the role of the Receiver of Memory; everyone did. It was odd to think, though, how Jonas could have had so many memories given to him by The Giver – he must've; how else would she be perceiving all these new words?

The Giver sighed deeply as he shuffled over to a red-felt armchair which had been positioned near the back of the room, a golden-knobbed wooden walking cane in hand. Last time, Marie hadn't noticed where he'd been sitting; now, watching as he carefully settled into the chair and propped his cane up next to the armrest. He inhaled slowly, expelling the air only when he was ready. Slowly, his hands folded on his lap, The Giver raised his head to look at Marie.

"He lived in another Community," he replied quietly. "His fellow residents learned the pain of its past, present, and future, and now lie…" He gestured vaguely, indicating everything that wasn't part of this Community or a neighbouring one, aka, Elsewhere. "They have long since reformed. But what's important, Marie," he began, his eyes closed and his expression unusually sombre, "is your past."

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Seriously, I've got to stop it with the cliffhangers. Scream if you like cliffies! Wooooooot! Anyway, you like? Any suggestions, ideas, criticism, praise,flames? Yes, I will accept flames, if you must know. (pouts) Well, whatever. See ya next time!