Braden wakes with a start, staring at the ceiling. The darkness of the room conceals him, a cocoon in this bastion of safety. For a moment he just lays there, refusing to get up, or move---as if the day might just pass him by; forget him completely if he lay still enough. A tension has formed in his throat. After a few minutes the tension becomes too much. Braden slides his feet out of bed, sitting up. The lump that had formed in his throat now slides down his body to rest in his stomach. Braden rubs his eyes, standing up. He quickly dresses, pulling on his boots before exiting his bedroom---careful not to make a sound, so as not to wake his family. their house is small---consisting of two bedrooms and a main living area, where the kitchen: dining table, and couch are located. Braden always finds the space suffocating, he spends as much time as possible anywhere else but here. The door creaks slightly as he opens it. Braden slips out into the morning.

The sun has not yet cast its first light onto the ground. The rain barrels are positioned outside in anticipation of the storm. Braden walks by the silver light of the moon, his boots squishing and sliding in the mud. The village is quiet as he passes through it, toward his destination. He always feels more at peace in the darkness---the quiet of the night gives him time to think. Too much thinking can also be a bad thing... Braden wonders what'll happen if he's chosen. If they call his name from the platform will his parents cry? Will his sister, Kayla cry? Or will they be too shocked to do anything? Would their last memories of him be of Braden walking up those steps to the stage in front of everyone in the village, so they can parade him around like some sort of winner. The thought disgusts Braden. He pushes it down. He can't afford to think like that. He's sixteen, His name will be in the drawing four times this year. The odds aren't great.

The run-down fence marking the end of the village stretches out before him as he approaches. A lopsided sign on the fence reads---Restricted Area. Keep Out---as a rather half-hearted warning. In the dim light it's hard to see, but Braden has been through the gap in the fence so many times he could find it with his eyes closed. In one clean motion, he pulls the loose bit of fence aside, bends down, and slips through as if he's practiced this hundreds of times.

The smell of wet soil, foliage, and pine fills his nostrils. The birds haven't begun their morning songs yet. Braden likes being awake before the birds---it gives him a sense of stillness. Once he enters the woods he lets instinct take over. Braden knows this area like the back of his hand. He's been sneaking out here since he was young. This place always felt more like home, than home did. If his house back in the village makes him feel claustrophobic, then this place was the opposite of that. He's never felt more free than in this forest. every time he comes here he contemplates never leaving, but something always draws him back. Maybe it's Kayla---Braden knows he could never abandon her. It's probably not his parents---his mom always seems more concerned for Kayla than himself. Sometimes it feels like she forgets he exists, though she'll never admit it. Still, Braden's glad his mother is so attentive to Kayla; at least Kayla gets her needs met. Braden's always cared more for Kayla than himself. He's always giving up his meals to make sure she gets enough to eat. Braden's Dad is very withdrawn from the dynamic. He works long hours in the lumber yard. At home he mostly sits around working on wood carvings that he'll sometimes be able to trade for food. When Braden was a kid his dad used to be so much more full of life, he'd take Braden into the woods far beyond the fence. Braden used to watch his dad's eyes sparkle as he talked about all the trees---his dad loves trees. Now he just works in that mill all day. Braden resents his dad for becoming so distant. Braden swears to himself he'll never do that to the people he cares about. A voice shakes him from his rumination.

"There you are, I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever show." The voice belongs to his best friend Skyla. She's standing in a very well hidden treehouse, about twenty feet off the ground. In the faint moonlight breaching the leafy canopy above, Her pale skin appears to give a faint glow.

"Hey, sky. Sorry, I got--lost in thought.

"That's so not like you at all," Sky rolls her eyes from above him.

"Don't mock me, or I'll--come up there and make you regret it," Braden begins climbing, but Sky blocks the top of the ladder.

"What's the password?" A sarcastic smile was beginning to tug at her rosy lips.

"I built this treehouse! why do I need a password to enter it?"

Because I've taken up management here. How do I know you're not an imposter? Or worse, the real you!" Sky's face contorts in mock shock.

"Very funny. Are we done yet?" But Sky's not backing down. That's one of the things Braden likes about her, she's stubborn. Come to think of it, it's also one of the things he dislikes about her."

"Tell me something only you could know. So I know you're not an imposter." She narrows her eyes. He likes when she does her pretend-serious face; he thinks it's cute.

"We carved our names on the railing up there one night, while we were watching the sunset," He tells her. A look of surprise fills her blue eyes at the mention, then it was gone. Did he imagine it?

"I suppose that'll do." She steps back from the ledge, offering her hand to him. Braden takes it gratefully. Now that he's standing next to her he can see how tired she looks. there's a twig and a couple leaves sticking out of her dark-blond hair. Braden picks them out, but she seems not to notice. all the play in her appearance had drained away.

"How long have you been here for?" Braden asks her.

"I couldn't sleep last night". She says, pausing before continuing. "What if my brother or your sister gets chosen?" The question cuts through the tension like a katana, slicing right through the heart of it. The one thought he was too afraid to engage with. They faced the draft since they were thirteen, that's nothing new, but now their siblings are thirteen. Braden feels the pit in his stomach convulse to a sickening crescendo. Sky meets his eyes. Braden can already see the tears forming. He feels his own eyes moisten. Once the sobbing starts it doesn't stop. They find themselves clutching each other desperately---tighter, tighter---as if the wind might blow them away if they don't hold on. Reality recedes until they are the only two people who exist, standing on air with nothing beneath them, or around them. In this moment they are one. How long they stay in that treehouse holding each other is a mystery. Reality begins to expand again. Braden becomes aware of the floor boards beneath him, then the gray light flooding in from above. The birds chirp with conviction. A gentle wind blows past them. They pull away to arms length, studying each other's faces. Then something unexpected happens: Sky bursts out laughing, Braden joins in---they collapse, heaving on the floor in a giggling frenzy. Maybe it's just the chemical release, a moment of one-pointedness. Because In spite of the weight they carry, they are just two sixteen year olds. Braden knows no matter what the day brings, the two of them will always have this moment to remember.

The walk back to the fence feels excruciating. Every step like a pin pricking Braden's nerves, inducing cessation of function. Braden and Sky walk a little distance apart, not a word is spoken the whole way back. They reach the fence far sooner than Braden expects. The pit in his stomach has become a constant throb. Braden pulls her in for another hug, much shorter than the last.

"We will survive this," she whispers in his ear before slipping through the fence. in a moment she's gone, leaving Braden standing there, more uncertain than he's ever been. Braden considers lingering a while longer, and going directly to the Choosing. The thought of going home and seeing his parents makes him feel sick. He knows he has to. Braden can't let his sister face this without him—The first year is always the hardest. He begins to walk back toward the house. The whole village is awake now. In the early light of the morning, people are scrambling around completing last minute chores. The looks on their faces are gaunt and anxious. Despair hangs heavy in the air.

Braden reaches the front door of his house. He puts his hand on the knob, pausing for a moment to steel himself. Braden opens the door. He finds his mom brushing Kayla's hair. His dad is sat at his work bench whittling at a piece of wood. Neither of his parents acknowledge Braden as he walks in—the tension is almost unbearable. Kayla squeals, running over to fling herself into him.

"I'm scared," she tells him.

"It's ok. You're thirteen, your name is only in the drawing once this year."

"I'm scared for you! Your chance is much higher." Braden feels touched by her concern.

"Don't be, I can take care of myself. You know that."

"Kayla, sweetie, come back over here so I can finish your hair—we have to get going soon." Their mother says from across the room. Braden can't stand it anymore.

"I'll be outside," he mutters, exiting the house.

Ten minutes later, Kayla comes out accompanied by their parents. Kayla runs over to grab his hand. His mom narrows her eyes. Normally Braden holds her gaze, but today he can't take on anything else. The four of them walk along the muddy street toward the city center. Dozens of people join in as they go. Where conversation would normally be had, there was just eerie silence. As they reached the city square, Braden sees soldiers, carrying assault rifles. The military rarely ever occupies their village—except on Choosing day. Village seven's primary export is wood. If they stop complying, the military will just cut off the food supply. Control the food, control the people.

Two soldiers stop their parents, ushering Kayla and Braden forward. Now it's just the two of them, still holding hands— groups of other kids surround them, heading in the same direction. The soldiers begin sorting the girls and boys into two lanes. One soldier separates Kayla from Braden.

"I'm scared!" She screams.

"I'll come find you right after the names are drawn, we're going to be just fine!"

Once everybody is lined up neatly in columns—facing a large stage that's set up every year for this exact occasion—a man walks onto the stage. He wears Black slacks: a white button-down shirt, and black boots. His hair is a few inches long, and rather flat. The expression on his face says he would rather be anywhere else, but here. after a pause, he speaks into a microphone.

"Thank you all for attending this year's choosing." As if they even had a choice. "Every year one boy and one girl are chosen for the most important task our society faces." Braden knows the speech by heart, it's the same one he's heard since he was a child. But the man says it with none of the gusto that the usual puppets speak with—this catches Bradens attention.

"To be chosen for this task is the greatest honor one could hope to receive in their lifetime." The puppet sounds so bored he might fall asleep, thinks Braden. "Without further a-do, let me announce the names of the winners, so we can all get to celebrating—the puppet says that last word with an obvious hint of disgust. Now Braden is really intrigued. The puppet reaches into a glass box sitting to his left, he extracts a small piece of paper from it. "The female winner is—Chloe Canterburn. Please step up to the stage."

A young woman walks down the aisle of people—walking up the steps onto the stage, coming to a stop next to the puppet with the flat hair. Chloe has a pallid appearance: bright amber eyes, and a pretty face. Braden has seen her before, but he's never talked to her.

"For the male contestant—Braden Austere. Braden's senses withdraw—he is only aware of darkness around him. The dissociation from his emotions bring temporary relief—a familiar floating feeling , absent of anything that could cause him pain. He snaps back. The kids standing nearest to him have turned to look. The pit in Bradens stomach hits another apex.

"Braden Austere." The man says again. Braden's legs begin moving on their own, he's still in such a state of shock, he barely realizes where he is. Braden finds himself standing on the stage—with him to the puppets left, and Chloe to his right. "There you have it. The winners of this year's Choosing."