Matched

We walk toward the air-train stop, two Officials on my right and one on my left. There’s no escaping them; I don’t dare look back at Ky. Not even when we climb onto the train he takes into the City. When he walks past me, his “hel o” sounds perfect: friendly, unconcerned. He continues on down the length of the car and sits next to a window. Anyone watching would be convinced that he doesn’t feel anything at al for me. He’s almost convinced me.

We don’t get off the air train at the City Hal stop, or at any of the other stops in the City proper. We keep going. More and more blue-clothed workers climb on, laughing and talking. One of them cuffs Ky on the shoulder and Ky laughs. I don’t see any other Officials or anyone else wearing student plainclothes like me. The four of us sit together in the sea of blue, the train twisting and turning like a river running, and I know it’s hard to fight against a current as strong as the Society.

I look out the window and hope with al my heart that this isn’t what I think it is. That we aren’t going to the same place. That I won’t be sorting Ky.

Is this a trick? Are they watching us? That’s a stupid question, I think to myself. Of course they’re watching us.

Hulking gray buildings crowd around in this part of town; I see signs, but the air train moves too fast for me to read them. But it’s clear where we are: the Industrial District.

Up ahead, I see Ky shift, stand. He doesn’t have to reach up for the grips hanging from the ceiling; he keeps himself level and balanced as the train slides to a stop. For a moment, I think everything wil be fine. The Officials and I wil keep going, past these gray buildings, beyond the airport with its landing strips and bright red traffic flags whipping in the wind like kites, like markers on the Hil . We’l go on out to the Farmlands, where they’l have me sort nothing more important than a crop or some sheep.

Then the Officials next to me stand up and I have no choice but to fol ow them. Don’t panic, I tel myself. Look at all these buildings. Look at all these workers. You could be sorting anything or anyone. Don’t jump to conclusions.

Ky doesn’t look to see if I’ve gotten off, too. I study his back and his hands to see if I can find any of the tension running through him that runs through me. But his muscles are relaxed and his stride even as he walks around to the side of the building where the employees enter. Many of the other workers wearing blue plainclothes go through the same door. Ky’s hands are loose at his sides, open. Empty.

As Ky disappears into the building, the blond Official leads me around to the front, to a kind of antechamber. The other Officials hand her datatags and she places them behind my ear, at my pulse points on my wrists, under the neck of my shirt. She’s quick and efficient about it; now that I’m being monitored, I try even harder to relax. I don’t want to seem unusual y nervous. I breathe deep and I change the words of the poem. I tel myself to go gentle, just for now.

“This is the food distribution block of the City,” the Official informs me. “As we mentioned before, the goal of the real-life sort is to see if you can sort real people and situations within certain parameters. We want to see if you can help the Government improve function and efficiency.”

“I understand,” I say, although I’m not sure I do.

“Then let’s get started.” She pushes open the doors and another Official comes to greet us. He’s apparently the Official in charge of this building, and the orange and yel ow bars on his shirt mean he’s involved in one of the most important Departments of al , the Nutrition Department. “How many do you have today?” he asks, and I realize that I’m not the only one taking the test and completing real-life sorts here. The thought makes me relax a little.

“One,” she says, “but this is our high scorer.”

“Excel ent,” he says. “Let me know when you finish.” He strides away and I stand stil , overwhelmed by the sights and smel s around me. And by the heat.

We stand in a gaping space, a chamber larger than the gymnasium at Second School. This room looks like a steel box: metal floors dotted with drains, gray-painted concrete wal s, and stainless-steel appliances lining the sides and bisecting the middle of the room in rows. Steam mists and writhes around the room. Vents at the top and sides of the building open to the outside, but there are no windows. The appliances, the foilware trays, the steaming hot water coming out of the faucets: Everything is gray.

Except for the dark-blue workers and their burned-red hands.

A whistle blows and a new stream of workers comes in from the left while the other workers exit on the right. Their bodies sag, tired, weighted.

They al wipe their brows and leave their work without a backward glance.