"Lot V5," I call, used to this every year. A boring day of picking who goes off to become food and who makes it. We ran out of food decades ago, so the government instituted a system. Every year, one member from each family is called to go to a 'sustainable farm'. In reality, they are actually sent to a mass production processing plant where they proceed through multiple steps before they are ground into nutrient rations to make food for others. Everyone knows that, but only us transport officers and the government are supposed to know, not any of the regions.

A young man steps forward holding a small slip of paper. On it, the paper says, "Chosen for Special Purposes." Each family draws, and one member in each family receives this paper. Quivering, he hands it to me and guards hustle him into a train leading to the Capitol.

I go through the majority of the people. At this point it's just muscle memory. The workers are trained to not feel any kind of emotion, and the training pays off. Seeing thousands of people head off to their death at your command could be really traumatizing, but the Capitol helps us in this way.

We take a quick lunch break, about a third of the people done. I peel open a can of the only food we are served, which is of course, the Donors from last year.

After lunch, I get back into the flow of things. This goes on for a while, until I call a specific lot.

"Lot N72!" I call. A frail woman in her early sixties steps forward. She looks familiar, but I can't place my mind on why. The government trained special kids from a very young age, so I never got to interact with anyone from the regions. Yet for some reason she looks familiar.

"I would like to volunteer for my daughter," she says in a quaking voice.

"I'm sorry m'am, but you can't do that," I respond. A young woman steps forward, about my age.

"It'll be okay ma," she says, tears in her eyes. The guards drag her to the train, and that's when I realize why I recognize them. I just sent my own sister to her death.