Chapter 11
Twenty-seven years ago
A scream broke through the surface of Tabitha’s dreams like an oar slicing through calm water, and she sat straight up in bed, still half-submerged in that other world. Heart pounding, she slid one small hand beneath her mattress, grasping for the handle of the knife her mother had hidden there.
Just in case.
Because if there were another reaping, parents could not be trusted. Children would have to protect themselves.
Tabitha’s fingers found the blade of the knife instead, and the cut was a sharp, immediate pain. The clarity of the sting—not muddled like blunt blows that left bruises—drew her thoughts into focus and vanquished the fog of sleep. She sucked on the cut without truly noticing the familiar, coppery taste of blood. Then she slid off the bed and lifted her thin mattress, bedding and all, and seized the knife the proper way.
Just like her mother had shown her.
Another scream sliced through the night, startling crickets and cicadas into silence, and Tabitha whirled toward the source of the sound. The open window over her nightstand.
She pushed the sheer curtain aside and bent to stare through the gap beneath the old, cloudy glass and the flaking windowsill.
Candlelight flickered in the barn.
Tabitha straightened her pale green nightgown, covering an old bruise on her leg, then headed for the hall clutching the knife. No one knew what a second reaping would look like, but Tabitha knew where to stab. Her mother had shown her which soft bits of flesh would be most vulnerable to her blade, should he come into her room at night, and Tabitha remembered every lesson.
What she did not remember was that the first
