The Threshing

I have dreaded this day for as long as I can remember, and now it is finally here - my 16th birthday.

I am told that long ago, one's 16th birthday was cause for a huge celebration. It was widely viewed as a sort of rite of passage into adulthood, a symbolic transition to the bright and glorious future. There would be loud, noisy parties with string lights, balloons, and layered cakes with sparkler candles. There were DJ's and pop music and dancing. It was a time of joy, excitement, and eager expectation for the future...but that was before, this is after.

Now, at 16-years-old, instead of parties and dancing, I have become eligible for the annual Threshing of the Omega Province. The Threshing is when all citizens, aged 16-years and older, are evaluated on their productivity and overall contribution to the continued survival of the province, and their adherence to the province's laws and dogma. Those who are deemed a burden on the province, a waste of resources, or those who rebel or resist against the system and its laws, are expelled from the province for life.

That may not sound like such a big deal, but those of us that live within the tall cement walls of Omega see the Threshing for what it really is - a certain death sentence.

Once the unlucky are selected and announced during the Call, a mandatory census of the entire province, the Threshed are allowed just 5 minutes to pack-up whatever meager belongings they may have and say goodbye, forever, to their family, friends, and loved ones. Running is not an option- after all, where would they even run to?

Handcuffed and surrounded by inconsolable and distraught loved ones, the Threshed are then marched at gunpoint down to the dirt airstrip on the outskirts of the province and forced onto an ancient carrier plane that will take them hundreds of miles from the only life they have ever known, and to their certain deaths.

Every year, there are usually one or two of the Threshed that make a mad, desperate dash for freedom during the long and dusty procession to the airstrip, but with the electrified walls surrounding the entire province, and nearly every square inch covered with cameras and surveillance equipment, there is simply nowhere to run to, and absolutely nowhere to hide. Inside or outside the walls, we are all trapped.

There's no logic or sense in these last-ditch attempts to resist or flee of the Threshing. I know it and even they know it, but I've realized that something feral and animalistic rises within someone when they know they are about to die, some ancient and irrational part of the brain that forgoes all logic, reason and consequence. It's pure animal instinct, and it screams, "run".

Sadly, those that answer this call are quickly and efficiently gunned down in a hail of bullets. Their ruined bodies are then left along the dirt road to rot under the punishing sun and within a week, their bodies are reduced to a pile of bleached white bones, scattered across the blistered sand like a broken pearl necklace. We know the bones are left behind as a warning, and as a threat, to all those who will be chosen next.

Once the remaining Threshed are forced onto the plane, it carries them 500 miles outside of the province's walls where they are unceremoniously dumped into a radioactive desert we call the Waste. Once the site of extended nuclear warfare, the Waste is nothing but dead, dry earth, rocks, and extreme heat, stretching for thousands of miles in every direction. Nothing can survive in the Wastes besides a handful of desert creatures that have adapted to the dangerously high radiation that still lingers in the poisoned earth.

While these creatures may have adapted to the radiation, a true testament to nature's resiliency, they've also become distorted and perverted beyond recognition. Our elders say that some have the heads of hyenas, but the body of an eagle or hawk, with talons as long as human fingers. Others may have two heads and two legs and walk upright like a man, while some crawl on their scaled bellies like snake or lizard. Vicious and ruthless, they are abominations that should only exist in hell, but then again, perhaps they do.

Between the extreme heat, the deadly levels of radiation, the complete lack of food and water, and the deadly creatures that call the Waste home, most of the Threshed are dead within a matter of hours. The unlucky ones may linger on a day or two before the desert finally consumes them.

To make the Threshing a little more interesting, and to portray the province as a merciful and gracious benefactor, the province will pardon one survivor and allow them back into the fold of Omega province.

They call it the Mercy Seat, but in order to claim it, one must survive the many deadly pitfalls of the Wastes and travel on foot the nearly 500 miles back to the gates of the province within 30 days. It's a nearly impossible task with dismal odds, but strangely, that does nothing to dispel the delusional hope that many of the Threshed, and their loved ones, hold onto with a death grip.

Unfortunately, there is only one Mercy Seat, so if multiple survivors somehow manage to avoid starvation, dehydration, dehydration, wild carnivores mutilated by radiation, and make it back to the gates within 30 days, then the survivors must settle the score amongst themselves. Afterall, there can be only one.

This typically involves a barbaric and brutal fight to the death, as the families and friends of the survivors watch from behind the wall in mute horror as their loved ones pummel each other to death with rocks, sticks, fists, and whatever else they managed to scavenge for weapons in the Waste.

Two years ago, a survivor named Bennan had managed to find a piece of an old car fender that he had sharpened and filed into a wicked looking sword. I remember the way it had flashed in the sun with every survivor he cut down to claim the Mercy Seat. That year, there had been an unprecedented 5 survivors at the gate, all of whom had managed to survive 30 days in a radioactive wasteland, only to be brutally murdered by one of their own, so close to home, to safety.

After claiming the Mercy Seat and being allowed back into the province, the man had been killed six months later in a machinery accident. According to official reports, it was a simple accident, but it was rumored that the families of his five victims played a significant role in his sudden demise.

The murder of Bennan had unsettled me deeply, as I knew that he had no choice in the matter- he didn't want to kill those people, but the province demanded blood for life. Afterall, only when one survivor remains will the gates be opened, and he did what had to be done to live. He chose life.

No one really wants to return to the province, where life is still brutal and short, but they want to die a slow and agonizing death alone in the Waste even less. Everyone knows, there is simply no chance of survival outside of the province, not since the Climate Wars destroyed most of the earth.

You see, hundreds of years ago, when the Omega Province was once called the United States of America, there were signs that not was all well with our mother earth. The signs were subtle at first; summer seemed to stretch longer into the fall season, the polar ice caps were melting a faster rate than ever before, and then winter came, but without any snowfall. The warming of the earth meant significantly less snowfall, and as a result, the rivers and lakes started to dry up, inch-by-inch.

However, America was rich, powerful, and blindly arrogant. She simply could not conceive of a threat great enough to cripple her, and so, she refused to reign in the mega corporations and regulate carbon production. She ignored the calls for alternative energy production and remained precariously dependent on oil and gas to feed her hungry children.

America consumed faster than she could produce, and so, she created shiny, new technologies that enabled her to produce even faster, which meant her children consumed even faster. Cheap, mass-produced items ended up in massive landfills that stretched to the horizon in every direction. It was deadly, gluttonous cycle of over-consumption that was simply too inconvenient to acknowledge.

All the while, the world was growing hotter by the day. Scientists tried to sound the alarm, but they were largely accused of being fanatics or conspiracy theorists and intimidated into inaction or silence. The polar ice caps started melting at alarming rates, sea life died off as the oceans and lakes grew too warm to sustain life, and new, deadly viruses started to pop-up around the world.

Then, rain stopped falling. Large swaths of once fertile land were transformed into barren, desert landscapes within a few years' time. Crops died, wild stock perished, and front lawns and backyard swimming pools dried-up and faded away from memory.

Water and food became the highest priced commodity in the history of the world.

People were starving. Everyone was thirsty. Money became worthless. Food and water were the only real currencies, and they were both in dangerously low supply.

Then came the mass exodus of entire cities. With no access to water, millions of desperate people abandoned their homes and jobs in search someplace that wasn't dying. Millions were suddenly displaced and homeless. Entire neighborhoods were left abandoned and empty, like empty shells scattered on a beach, serving as a bleak reminder of the swift collapse of the American dream.

With no solution in sight, the world turned an angry and vengeful eye to America.

America, once so proud and wealthy, had less than 5% of the world's population, but consumed more than 40% of the world's resources. The collective world powers pointed their fingers and blamed America and her insatiable greed for the climate crisis. In recompense for the world-wide breakdown of the climate and ecosystems, they demanded a share of America's wealth and resources.

But America herself was starving. She was no longer powerful, no longer wealthy, no longer invincible. She had fallen from her glorious thrown with a thunderous crash.

It didn't take long before her own children began turning on each other. Neighbors turned on neighbors and friends turned on friends. An emaciated pet goat or a half-filled cabinet of expired canned food could get you killed in a matter of minutes. People were desperate and only chaos ruled. America herself was falling apart at the seams.

That's when the bombs started dropping.

To this day, no one really knows why or how the nuclear war started on top of everything else. International communication and diplomacy had utterly broken down and chaos had gotten a solid foothold in nearly every country and state. Governments were felled and replaced every few weeks by a new political group or organization, and people were desperate, fearful and suspicious of their fellow man.

Factions gave birth to new factions and even more divisions. Leaders rose and fell in rapid succession. Meanwhile, America, once the brightest beacon of wealth and power in the world, was the focus of worldwide disdain and hatred.

All we know now is that somehow, somewhere, someone thought that dropping a few strategic nuclear bombs on American soil would somehow even the playing field, or at the very least, satiate the need for vengeance.

They were wrong.

Washington DC was first to get hit (taking out the President and most of congress in one fell swoop) followed by New York, Chicago, LA, Houston and Seattle.

America, then in her death throes and with nothing to lose, retaliated blindly, suspecting a joint conspiracy against her, leading to 3-week period coined "the Descent", during which humanity recognized its worst fear- worldwide nuclear war.

The radioactive fallout and subsequent starvation and illness that followed killed more than 80% of the world's population within 6 months.

More battles followed, but this time, they were fought on smaller stages. Cities fought against neighboring towns and neighborhoods warred against encroaching outsiders. What was left of humanity wrestled for power and control over the rapidly dwindling water and food supply.

State and city infrastructure was utterly demolished. Highways and roadways were pocked with craters and littered with abandoned vehicles. The internet ceased to exist, along with indoor plumbing and electricity. Survivors were forced to band together and fight for control over what inhabitable land was left.

America the great, once a powerful nation of over 500 million citizens, was reduced to a few thousand survivors.

It took decades of bloody and brutal civil war for the Omega Province to form, and for the semblance of government and order to be recognized, but eventually, while teetering on the cliff of total extinction, calmer heads finally prevailed. Leaders rose up to pull humanity back from the brink of total annihilation, including the founder of the Omega Province, Julian Price.

But extreme times called for extreme measures. The Omega Province was determined to not make the same mistakes as their forefathers. Greed and over-consumption had to be eradicated at all costs. Personal choice and freewill had to be restricted and controlled. Humanity had proven itself incapable of such luxuries. Instead, the individual would no longer exist outside the whole. Everyone would work and contribute equally towards the continued survival of the human race.

Julian Price and his senators agreed, in order for humanity to survive, humanity had to become a well-oiled machine of discipline, order, and single-minded focus.

You see, the continued survival of the human race is still a question mark. While humanity had managed to scratch out a precarious existence, held together by the harsh tenants of the province, the earth is still dying. Much of the land is uninhabitable, poisoned with radiation and littered with the sticky residue of decades of war, famine and drought. The earth is still getting hotter by the day, and water is becoming harder and harder to come by.

Unity, hard work, and sacrifice, the core values of the provinces, are humanity's only chance of continued survival.

Mother Earth had yet to decide if she would finish what humanity had ultimately set in motion - the extinction of the human race. So, we work, knead, and till the dry, dead earth, coaxing and begging meager harvests from our once generous mother. We recycle rainwater and urine through rusty pipes until it never quite loses that yellowish-tint, and we wait for Mother Earth to heal. We wait for her to forgive us.

Mother Earth has turned out to be quite the vindictive bitch.

But humans are tenacious when they have to be, and the province has continued to grow and thrive despite the harsh conditions we continually face. The new history books say that is all thanks to the vision and leadership of Julian Price, his decedents, and the senators, who rule the province with a collective iron fist.

But I know better. The one thing keeping this machine oiled is hope, a hope so fragile and thin that no one dares speak of it aloud. It is a hope that the earth will someday heal, that the concrete walls surrounding the province will come down, and that humanity will free again. Free to decide its own fate- whatever that may be.

But for now, we must toil, and we must wait under the constant and relentless gaze of the Assessors.

The Assessors, an elite group of high government officials, are the beating heart of this whole operation. No one really knows who they are or what they look like, but we do know that they are constantly watching us, thanks to the thousands of hidden cameras and monitor drones spread throughout the province. They watch, assess, and carefully quantify. They count the calories we eat, the amount of water we consume, the amount of space we take up, and weigh it against our contributions to the ongoing survival of the province. Their entire job is to determine whether the cost of keeping us alive, actually pays off.

It's simple math, really. But in a place like the province, you have to fight like hell just to stay on the right side of that equation. Those that don't, find themselves slated for the next Threshing.

It's not personal, they say. It's survival.

It's not about any one person, or any one life, it's about the continued survival of our entire species.

Too bad no one ever stopped to ask if humanity even deserves to survive.

So now, here I am on my 16th birthday and two weeks away from the annual Threshing, with a feeling of dread lodged deep in the pit of my stomach. I queue up under the florescent lights of the cafeteria for the midday meal, my mind racing with uncertainty.

I swipe my ID bracelet under the waiting scanner, which tells the kitchen how many calories and many ounces of water I am allotted based on my age, sex, and assigned job duties. The dispenser pings brightly in response and my condensed nutritional bar and bottled water slide out of the dispenser on a white plastic tray.

I scan the crowded cafeteria, a dizzying sea of matching grey jumpsuits and grey cement walls, and spot my best friend, Binna, waving me to a saved seat at the back of the cafeteria.

Usually a bustling hive of activity and conversation, the cafeteria is unusually quiet and muted as I quickly make my way across the cold, cement floor to the back where Binna is waiting expectantly. The faces of those I pass are white with anxiety and tension, their eyes darting back-and-forth like caged animals searching for an escape.

This happens every year; the closer the Threshing looms, the quieter and more subdued everyone becomes, as if we can somehow shrink ourselves to be small and quiet enough that the Assessors simply forget that we even exist. With the Threshing just two weeks away, the room is thick with tension and mounting anxiety.

The Guardians, an elite security force tasked with "protecting" the civilian population of the province, are posted strategically throughout the cafeteria, scanning the crowd for any sign of disturbance. The Guardians look like ominous storm clouds as they hover the around the fringes of the cafeteria in their all-black uniforms. Their expressions and identities are hidden by blacked-out face shields, but I can feel their glares of suspicion and disdain from across the room.

Plucked from the civilian population and trained to police and brutalize their families and friends, the Guardians were once one of us. Now, fully indoctrinated by the province, they belong to the elite of the province, along with the Julian Price, the senators, the Assessors, and government administrators. With better food, more water, and better living conditions, there was plenty of incentive to become a Guardian, but we recognize them for what they really are: traitors.

"Happy birthday, Everleigh!" Binna croons brightly as I sit down next to her on the cold, stainless steel bench. I return her tight smile as she gives me a quick squeeze, her voice strained with forced enthusiasm, "I can't believe you're 16 today!"

I appreciate the concentrated effort it requires Binna to celebrate my birthday, considering the absolute dread permeating the room like a thick fog. It seems calloused and futile to celebrate anything at the moment, because in just a few weeks, some of the people in this very room will be dead. I cast a quick glance around the room at the sullen and defeated faces and can't help but think, "Will it be you?"

"Great timing for my birthday, huh?" I tease, trying to ease the tension from my voice and take an unenthusiastic bite of my condensed nutritional bar. The dry flakes taste like ash in my mouth.

Binna's large brown eyes darkened ever so slightly as she leans in closer, "You have nothing to worry about, Everleigh," she says, her voice lowered so as not be overheard, "You are young, healthy, and so wicked smart. They need you! The hospital needs you! There's no way you are being selected this year."

"Maybe," I shrug, unconvinced, my mouth feeling exceedingly dry. While we have endless theories on how the Threshed are selected each year, no one knows for sure what the underlying criteria are. All we know for sure is that no one is safe. No one.

Since this is the first year that I am eligible for the Threshing, I just can't help but worry about all the possible things that could go terribly wrong, but mostly, I can't help but worry about my mother. My mom is the only family I have left after my father died in a machinery accident when I was just 10 years old. I once had a baby sister, too, Ellna, but she died just a few months after she was born.

Born with a rare form of neonatal diabetes, the province refused my little sister any treatment, as it does with all chronic illnesses. They call it "nature's Threshing" and believe in "nature taking its course". We had to sit by and watch Ellna waste away for days until "nature took its course." It was excruciating and my father was never the same afterward, turning to black-market moonshine to numb his pain. He had been drunk on the job when he had his accident and was killed. Through all the loss, my mom had been my one constant.

While still relatively healthy, my mom works in the fields, which is backbreaking, grueling work, and I worry constantly about the visible toll the fieldwork has had on her.

At only 32-years-old, her thick raven hair is already peppered with greys, and her hands are tough and calloused like old leather. I can't help but notice each new wrinkle, the way she favors her right hip when she walks, and the way it takes her a few moments to recover after walking up a flight of stairs. But if I noticed these things, did the Assessors also notice them?

"Here's the birthday girl!" A voice suddenly chirps cheerfully behind me. Startled, I quickly turn in my seat to see my other best friend, Crislee, smiling widely as she bends down to give me a warm hug while balancing her own tray on her hip, "Happy birthday, Everleigh!"

"Aw thank you, Crislee!" I reply with a grateful smile and scoot down the bench to make more room, patting the empty spot beside me, "I can't believe you guys remembered my birthday, despite everything that is going on right now."

"Well, what can I say? We are probably the best friends ever," Binna jokes and offers Crislee a small wink.

"I can't argue with that!" I agree with a small chuckle, grateful for the brief, lighthearted distraction.

Crislee plops her tray down on the table and tucks into the seat next to me, her face stiff with sudden discomfort. Right away, our eyes are drawn to the distinct nutritional bar on Crislee's tray - a nutritional bar that is designed specifically and only for expecting mothers. Binna and I exchange wide-eyed glances.

"Crislee,"Binna gasps, her dark brown eyes popping wide," Are you...are you pregnant again?"

I turn and stare intently at Crislee as she sits quietly, her hands folded tightly in her lap, waiting for her response. Crislee is only a year older than me and Binna, but she is already married and has a 2-year-old daughter, Maylyn. Crislee's situation is a pretty typical of life in the province, as the overall life expectancy is very low due to the chronic malnutrition, dehydration, and intense labor demands. Marriage and babies have to happen sooner than usual, as we simply don't live long enough to wait for these major milestones to happen. If we did wait, there's a good chance they would never happen.

Crislee's face suddenly crumples into despair as she looks down at her tray, tears brimming her red-rimmed eyes. "I didn't want to ruin your birthday, Leigh," she sighs miserably, her long blond hair falling in front of her face like a shield.

Dumbfounded, I grip Crislee's thin hands tightly in mine, forcing her to face me, "Ruin my birthday? How could this ruin my birthday?"

"I just found out," Crislee tries to explain, her voice trembling slightly, "They think I'm about six weeks along."

"But that's wonderful, Crislee!" I respond, shocked but excited for another little one to love on. Maylyn is, by far, one the bright spots in all of our lives and another baby would be just as loved and adored, "But wait, what's wrong? Why are you so upset? I don't understand..." my voice trails off as Crislee stifles a quiet sob.

Binna frowns at me in concern as Crislee tries to blink back tears and takes a long, shuttering breath. "It's not that I don't want the baby," she confides, her voice lowered so as not be overheard, "You know I love Maylyn. She's the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I know I will love this baby, too... It's just all this pressure is getting to me."

I blink in surprise. "The pressure?" I echo dumbly and glance at Binna, who offers me a silent shrug.

Crislee nods urgently, "Yes, the pressure," she repeats, her voice now strained and earnest, "I HAVE to be pregnant, Leigh. It was the only way to avoid the Threshing this year."

Binna and I exchange grim glances and nod knowingly. This is a common dilemma for many young women in the province. Since pregnant women are exempt from the Threshing, many women spend most of their lives pregnant in order to ensure their own continued survival. However, being pregnant in the province was a double-edged sword.

While expectant mothers were allotted a few extra calories each day, they still didn't get enough, let alone the all the minerals and nutrients they would need to have healthy or uncomplicated pregnancies. As a result, the majority of the pregnancies in the province ended in miscarriages, stillborn births, or even the death of the mother, while only the strongest and most robust mothers and infants survived the ordeal. In a way, pregnancy was like a Threshing all its own, culling the weak and fragile and ensuring a strong, productive labor force.

As if the tragic consequences of pregnancies in the province weren't devasting enough, the Assessors were known to pay close attention to every failed pregnancy, every miscarriage, and every stillborn birth. Afterall, failure to bring value to the province was considered the ultimate crime, one you pay for with your life.

To complicate her situation even more, Crislee had severe asthma that eliminated her from being eligible for hard labor jobs, but her assessment scores weren't high enough for her to be eligible for the desk jobs, either. At this point, Crislee's only value to the province was her ability to make babies, or in other words, to provide the next generation of labor.

Nothing, beyond food and water, was more valuable than reproduction to the province, because in order for the province to survive, they had to sustain a robust and growing population of worker bees. They needed strong babies to grow up and till their fields, operate their granaries and run their machine shops. Without new life, without young, strong, healthy bodies replacing the old, weak, and used-up, the province could not sustain itself.

I now understood this meant that Crislee's only chance to survive the Threshing was to have a healthy, live baby. Crislee was right. The pressure was on, full force.

I watch quietly as Binna wraps a reassuring arm around Crislee's thin shoulders and squeezes gently, "Well, at least your safe this time around. One year at a time, right?"

Crislee's nostrils flare angrily as she shrugs off Binna's arm in frustration, "You just don't get it!" she hisses at us, her blue eyes flashing with resentment, "Neither of you can understand what kind of pressure I'm under! Both of you scored high on your assessments and have important jobs that make you valuable to the province! Because I failed my assessments, they say I have nothing of worth beyond my ability to have babies, and even that is questionable."

In the province, children are educated until the age of 14, at which time they are given a battery of assessment tests that quantify their intelligence, skill sets, and estimated value to the province. Based on the assessment findings, we are assigned jobs that we will hold for the rest of our lives.

I was one of the few lucky ones who did extremely well in the assessment tests (second highest in my cohort to be exact), which was mostly due to my mother's rigorous and borderline obsessive tutoring in the months leading up to the assessment. But after working in the fields her entire life, and then losing her husband to an accident in the machine shop, my mother was determined that her daughter would have a better life than her own, one that didn't include dangerous and grueling hard labor.

Because of my high ranking, I was placed in the province's hospital as a doctor in training, one of the most desirable positions available in the entire province. Binna also did fairly well and landed a position as an assistant engineer in the water recycling plant, but Crislee, who had always had testing anxiety for as long as I can remember, scored extremely low. Now, her lack of options puts her in an extremely tenuous position every year, come Threshing time.

"Wait, what do you mean your ability to have babies is questionable?" Binna asks, her brows narrowing at Crislee.

Crislee sighs heavily, the brief flash of anger and resentment quickly melting away with fatigue and exhaustion and begins picking nervously at the frayed hem of her jumpsuit, "I didn't tell you guys because I didn't want anyone to know."

"Know what, Crislee?" I ask gently, exchanging a confused glance at Binna.

Crislee takes another steadying breath and continues reluctantly, her eyes downcast, "I lost my last pregnancy, 8 months ago. It was miscarriage. And yes, "they" know. They know everything."

Binna and I stare at Crislee in horror and shock as we finally realize the totality of her situation. This was bad, really bad, and I had no idea how to fix it, or how to help.

"Cris, I had no idea you were even pregnant 8 months ago!" I finally manage to respond, "You never said anything...Why didn't you tell us?"

Crislee shrugs weakly, now picking at the nutrient bar on her tray. "I lost the baby just a few weeks after I found out I was pregnant," she explains quietly, her eyes locked on her kneading fingers in order to avoid our searching stares, "I felt like a total failure and I just couldn't bear to tell you and then see the worried looks on your faces...just like now!"

Binna and I both straighten in our seats and attempt to reign in our horrified facial expressions, but without much success. Binna looks like she might vomit or pass out. Crislee's own face is mask of misery, fear and shame.

A flare of impotent rage surges through my body, a feeling like hot blood through my veins. I hate the province and all that is stands for with every fiber of my being. While the province leaders try to dress up their cruel policies as necessary evils to ensure the survival of the human race, I see right through it. I see it for what it truly is.

Despite what Julian Price and his senators say, it's not about the survival of the human race, it's about improving the quality of life and providing creature comforts for the province's elite. It's about the strong dominating, abusing, and using the weak for their own gain and benefit. It's a story as old as time itself, and yet here we are, having barely survived the end of the world and still repeating history.

Despite my festering rage, my own mind is already going a million miles a minute, trying to quantify the various scenarios of what could happen to Crislee. But no matter which way I look at it, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: Crislee's situation is incredibly dire. Even if she manages to carry this pregnancy to term and avoid the Threshing this year, what about next year? And the year after that?

My eyes scrutinize the dark, purple bags beneath Crislee's dull eyes, her skin appearing sallow and grey under the harsh cafeteria lights. Through the thin, grey material of her jumpsuit, I can make out the sharp edges of her ribcage and shoulder blades. I chew my bottom lip and worry in silence.

Severely underweight and small for her age due to a lifetime of malnourishment, how many more pregnancies could Crislee realistically survive? One more? Two more at the most? Her small, fragile frame looks like it couldn't even hold up against a brisk wind, let alone a 9-month long pregnancy and a grueling, hours long labor.

No, babies are not the answer here. Having bay after baby was not going to save Crislee. If anything, a future pregnancy would most likely be the death of her.

"Are worried you will lose this baby, too?" Binna suddenly asks, breaking the tense silence and jolting me from my thoughts.

Crislee chokes down a sob and nods her head ever so slightly, her blue eyes wide and frantic with unspoken terror.

Leave it to Binna to get the heart of the matter. While future pregnancies are certainly a worry, the pregnancy at hand is our immediate concern. With the Threshing just 2 weeks away, Crislee couldn't lose the baby now. If she can just hold on for a few more weeks and get through this next Threshing...then we would deal with the future.

I wrap my arms around Crislee's bony shoulders and pull her fiercely to me, as if I can somehow shield her with my body from all of the horrors of this place. Her small body shudders weakly in my arms as she stifles another sob and I fight to reign in my own mounting panic. Quickly, before she can pull away, I slip my own nutritional bar into her jump suit pocket.

Crislee's face snaps to mind, her eyes wide with warning and shakes her head once, silently. Sharing food is absolutely forbidden in the province. Afterall, food and water are the most powerful weapons at the province's disposal. We are each allotted a daily allotment of food based on our value to the province, but if we were to share our food, that would take away the province's most effective mechanism for control. As such, any sharing, bartering, or selling of food is strictly forbidden.

"Shhh," I whisper under my breath, "You know you need it more than I do. Don't argue."

Binna's eyes are wide with fear as she watches our exchange and I shake my head once in her direction, pleading for her not to draw attention to us.

Binna catches my drift and quickly lowers her eyes to her tray while taking a small bite of her own nutritional bar and chewing mechanically.

If Crislee is going to keep this baby and survive the next Threshing, she needs more calories. It's as simple as that. My own stomach grumbles loudly in protest, but my percolating rage manages to drown it out. After all, hunger is something we are used to. I simply push my hunger to the back of mind, to a deep, dark corner where I keep things that I cannot deal with at the moment, like memories of my father and sister and worries of my mother.

Crislee knows, like we know, that if she loses this baby in the next two weeks, she will almost certainly be selected in the next Threshing. The only thing standing between Crislee and imminent death is the small, fragile life growing within her. Her pregnancy is a just stay of execution, a momentary reprieve, and I will do anything I can to keep her baby alive.

Suddenly, the shift alarm sounds loudly, cutting through the quiet tension at our table and blaring throughout the large cafeteria, announcing the start of the next work shift. The shrill sound reverberates off the tall, bare walls and pulses through my body, synching up with my own racing heart.

Everyone in the cafeteria begins filing out in a single line, returning their empty trays through the dispensary on their way out. The Guardians continue to hover closely, their heads on a tight swivel, ensuring an orderly departure and that no food is being hidden or stolen.

Crislee sucks in a long, shuttering breath and manages a weak smile as we all stand together and shuffle stiffly to the back of the line, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible. I wedge Crislee in tightly between Binna and I so that the small bulge in her jumpsuit pocket can't be seen.

"I'm so sorry I ruined your birthday lunch," Crislee murmurs sadly, as she shuffles forward in line and inserts her tray in the receptacle, "This was supposed to be a good day!"

"Hey, there's absolutely nothing to worry about," I assure her, inserting my own trey and following closely behind, "You know birthdays aren't a big deal to me. I'm just glad you told us what's going on. We want to be here for you, whatever we can do to help."

Binna nods in agreement, "That's right."

Crislee smiles sadly to herself, a knowing smile that acknowledges there is little I, or anyone else, can do to help her.

"I'll see you guys tonight, before curfew," Crislee adds briskly and stuffs her hands deep in her pockets. She nods once, a tense movement that betrays the weight she is carrying, and swiftly turns on her heel, exiting the cafeteria.

Binna and I watch helplessly as Crislee's small frame disappears down the crowded, florescent lit hall.

"C'mon", I sigh and tug on Binna's sleeve, still feeling a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach, "We better get going if we're going to make the next bell."

Binna and I walk in silence as we jostle through a thick mass of grey-clad bodies down the long, sparce hallways. The cement walls and floors look even more depressing and bleak under the harsh, florescent lights that line each corridor. Every ten feet or so, the cement is interrupted by glossy, colorful posters espousing province propaganda, like, "The needs of many are greater than the desires of one", "Without sacrifice, there is no survival!" and their personal favorite, a verse from the Bible, "And he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire"- Matthew 3:12.”

I ignore the posters as usual, totally lost in thought about Crislee's dire situation when Binna suddenly speaks," Do you think you and Zey will get married, now that you're 16?"

Startled by her sudden question, I almost trip over my own feet, and quickly grab hold of Binna's thin arm to steady myself while shooting her an exasperated grin. Binna beams with self-satisfaction and prods me in the ribs with a teasing finger, "C'mon, Leigh, it's time to start thinking about it! You're a grown woman now!"

I snort in amusement and just roll my eyes, shrugging of her question with mild irritation. While her question totally caught me off guard, Binna is right. Most girls my age are already married and some are even having kids. Just look at Crislee. Now that I'm 16, marriage and babies will be expected, no, demanded of me. My stomach lurches with this new dilemma.

My boyfriend, Zey, grew up in the family pod next door to me and has been one my best friends (and my boyfriend) for almost as long as I can remember, but for some reason, it is really hard for me to think of taking that next step with him, or with anyone.

"C'mon," Binna chides, her voice needling, "You and Zey have been together longer than most married couples here! Why is it such a big deal to make it official? Don't you want that?"

I turn to answer Binna, her eyes wide and expectant, but the words fail to flow, my mouth hanging open stupidly. Helplessly, I shrug in response.

Binna arches an unimpressed eyebrow, "You're not getting out of this conversation that easy, Leigh."

I try to make sense of my thoughts as Binna watches me intently. The truth is, Zey isn't the problem, or how I feel about him. It was the fact that once we get married, we would be expected to have children right away, and as many children as possible, but what kind of what life would I be bringing them into? What kind of life could I give them?

A life where they had to constantly prove their own worth and value, under threat of execution? A life where they would be constantly hungry, thirsty and tired? A life where they would be made to pay for the sins of their ancestors, every day for the rest of their lives? A life where they could make no real choices of their own and everything would be forced on them?

I wanted more for my children, more than the province could ever offer them. To me, it just felt wrong to bring children into this utterly broken, damaged, and brutal world that offered no way out, and no hope. I think of my father's short, sad life in the province and shudder.

"I don't know, Binna," I finally respond, feeling exasperated but keeping my voice low, so as not to be overheard, "I know that's what is expected of me, but I don't know if that's what I really want."

Binna snorts in surprise, "What YOU want? Ha! You're hilarious right now. What about any of THIS is about what you want? Do you think this is what Crislee wanted? I swear, Leigh, you live in your own world sometimes."

I shoot Binna a warning glare to keep her voice down. Talk like this could be extremely dangerous if overheard by the wrong people. Luckily, these corridors are pretty far away from the main hub of the province and are relatively empty this time of day, but there are still the hidden cameras to always be wary of. It's rumored there are thousands of them, watching us 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

"Don't you love, Zey?" Binna persists annoyingly.

"Of course, I do!" I snap back defensively, instantly imagining the way Zey's dark brown eyes crinkled when he laughed," I've loved Zey my entire life, but what if..."

"What if what?"

I groan in exasperation. This whole conversation is drudging up questions I just don't have answers to. Marriage and kids are all things that I should be thinking about, but for some reason, when I do think about them, it just feels WRONG. It feels forced and limited and predictable and ugh...what is wrong with me? I would be lucky to marry someone like Zey...

"What if I don't know what love really is?" I fire back at Binna, my frustration boiling over, "What if I think I love Zey, but love is actually something totally different than what I think it is? Huh? What then? I mean, I still feel like a kid...I don't know what I'm doing."

Binna sighs with exasperation, "Now you are just overthinking things again."

I shrug once again, suddenly feeling very, very tired, "Maybe."

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