Taken (Erin Bowman)

her eyes closed in a peaceful sleep. She’s still too young to understand what’s going on. To her, it’s merely a fun party and the excitement has worn her out.
    Emma removes my arm from behind her neck. “Will you be all right?” she asks. She smiles at me painfully and I know she’s referring to the fact that I’m about to lose Blaine, not my injury. I feel like I should say something, but my mouth is dry.
    “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get in line.”
    The entire town is present, women, as always, far outnumbering the men. Children who do not yet understand what they are witnessing run around the bonfire, yelping and playing joyfully. Everyone else exchanges forlorn looks, including the Council Heads. The Danner sisters whisper to each other, standing so close they nearly bleed into one person, while Clara and Stellamay fidget anxiously in the receiving line. The only calm Head—the only person unfazed—is Maude Chilton. She leans on her knotted cane and stares headlong into the fire. Each line that creeps its way across her weathered face and toward her chalky hairline is illuminated.
    Maude has been around since the beginning, forty-seven years to be exact. I know this only because I’ve read the scrolls that are stored in our library. Maude was thirteen back when Claysoot was founded. There were no adults.
    Now Maude leads the Council. This would be something to brag about if it weren’t for all that she’s lost. Every son Maude’s ever known, every nephew or grandson or brother, has fallen victim to the Heist. Most of the girls she grew up with have died from disease or old age. Perhaps this is why she can stay so calm with each ceremony. Perhaps she is numb.
    Emma and I join the line. We are the last two, with the exception of Maude, who always brings up the rear. As I wait for my turn, I watch the villagers greet Blaine. Some clasp his hands, give him a firm pat on the shoulder. Others cry. Sasha, while she hasn’t been slated to Blaine in years, brushes aside tears after breaking from his arms. Finally only Emma and I remain. I let her go first.
    She rushes to Blaine with surprising force, looping her arms around his neck. He returns the hug. They exchange words I can’t quite make out, which is just as well, I suppose. Emma’s good-bye is not mine to hear. When they break apart, Blaine squeezes her hand reassuringly.
    Before she turns to leave, Emma rises on her toes and plants a kiss on Blaine’s cheek. I can’t help but feel jealousy stir in the pit of my stomach. It courses through me, envious of her kiss, irritated with how clearly she will miss him. It’s disgusting, hanging on these selfish thoughts when Blaine will soon be gone forever. Why can I not be decent? Why can I not say good-bye?
    It’s my turn.
    Blaine speaks first.
    “Hey, Gray.” He is still wearing the new jacket.
    “Hey.” It’s all I can muster.
    “You missed the feast.”
    “That’s okay. There will be others.” And it’s true. For every Heist there is a ceremony, and for every ceremony there is a feast, to take our minds off the gravity of the situation.
    “You seem well,” I add, looking up at him, my mirror image with blue eyes. I doubt I will be so calm this time next year. I don’t have the composure he does. I’ll likely be one of the boys who melts down as the Heist approaches, becomes a fidgeting mess during the ceremony, and collapses in panic.
    “There’s nothing I can do to stop it,” Blaine says. “It’s coming either way, so I might as well try and enjoy these final moments with everyone.”
    Final moments. Last moments.
    “I’m going to miss you, Blaine.” I can’t bring myself to look at him.
    “I’m going to miss you, too, but I’ll be seeing you soon. Whatever comes next, death or otherwise, I think we’ll meet again.”
    He winks at me. It catches me off guard, such a playful gesture on such a grave night, but then I realize he is consoling me. I should be comforting him, especially with what he faces, and yet here is, telling me that everything will be fine. He plays big brother so well.
    I grasp him tightly, locking my arms around his back, and he returns the hug. It is not long or drawn-out, and neither of us cries; but when I finally let go and walk away, I feel as though an integral piece of me has been ripped from my chest.
    Maude approaches Blaine and I want her to go slowly. I don’t want it to end, because when she finishes, it will be time. It has to