Matched: Chapters 8–12

I’m sure Xander wants to go back to the game center, but I don't. Our last excursion there didn’t end so well, what with my stepping on the tablets and having to meet with an Official.

“No, let’s do the showing,” Xander says. “You know, that one about the Society? With all the aerial views?”

His tone is mild, but there is, and always has been, something a little deeper and more resonant about his voice.

It has a slightly different timbre than most voices.

“Having my vocation keeps me busy. I’m glad you all don’t seem to mind."

His eyes are wide and he has forgotten to keep his face still and calm. Instead, it is alight with wonder.

They have gone over the top with the dramatic, barren redlands; the shabby little houses; the few sullen, hard, sad-looking actors walking around the dangerous, almost-empty streets.

The Anthem of the Society plays in the background, ornate higher notes crying across a strong bass line that pounds the feelings home.

It’s ludicrous, especially after the quiet scene at Grandfather's that I witnessed on Sunday.

Garish red bloodstains cover his clothing.

When the movie ends, reprising the sweeping travelogue from the beginning, Ky takes a deep breath.

When they do, he is calm and composed and back to the Ky I know.

The Officer disappears into the undergrowth.

Even when a pine branch snaps back and I feel the sharp slap of needles and sinewy branch on my face, I don’t stop.

It’s not quiet in this forest, crowded with vegetation and thick, muggy morning air wet against my skin.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

He speaks formally, as if reciting data, but I notice a sheen of sweat across his face; and the way he’s stretching his legs out in front of him looks familiar.

A small white air car, an Official vehicle, sits sidled up next to a blue-shuttered house on our street.

The air-car’s landing gear is delicately splayed out, resting on the grass.

I don't know what happens when people break the rules, because people here in the Borough don’t break them. There are minor citations issued from time to time, like when Bram is late.

But those are small things, small errors. Not large errors, or errors committed with purpose. Infractions.

My father stands in the middle of the room while the Biomedical Team berates him.

And I'm full of hypocrisy. I did something against the rules today too, and what I did was intentional.

“This may result in some sanctions for you at work," one of the Officials says to my father, in a tone so mean I wonder if she will get cited herself.

The Officials bristle a little. Is she trying to dismiss them?

The Officials nod curtly at us and, one by one, they leave, walking through the foyer, past the port, out the only door in the house.

Still, I don't see how he couldn’t bring something. Secret, maybe, inside, intangible.

If you run too far, you might be a masochist, an anorexic, or another type, and you will have to see an Official of Psychology for diagnosis. If it’s determined that you are running hard because you genuinely like it then you can have an athletic permit.

All of the things that were shown in early studies to be good for longevity—happy marriages, healthy bodies—are ours to have.

Cancer, heart disease, and most debilitating illnesses are almost entirely eradicated.

Cancer, heart disease, and most debilitating illnesses are almost entirely eradicated.

Soon, the smell of the food comes in underneath my door, or maybe it drifts through the thin walls of our house, permeating everything.

My father and the other Restoration specialists have been through the boxes and they haven’t found anything special, so they will incinerate all of it.

Neither of them are, or were, high-level Officials in places like the Match Department or the Safety Department. Those are the ones that do most of the Official-type things, like implement rules.

My father glances once at the sky, aware of the impending thunderstorm.

Speed is important, but they have to be methodical.

As I glance up, over across the chasm of spiders and books, I see another figure in white.

My mother always laments the waste, since decayed leaves can be good fertilizer, just as my father laments the waste of the paper that could be recycled when he has to incinerate a library.

Getting to my seventeenth birthday felt like steps taken slowly down a path where I saw each pebble, noticed each leaf, and felt pleasantly bored and anticipatory at the same time.

But it is as though the rain outside pours on me, too, eroding my relief and leaving only regret: The poems are gone, and I can never get them back.