The Letting Read Online Free Page B

no one above me, except Margaret.
    Margaret. As I sit here in the dark staring at Gretchen, both of us scared to move for fear we’ll have to act, my mind races with questions. Why is Margaret happy for me? She has never made it a secret she dislikes me. But why she dislikes me is a mystery. Gretchen thinks Margaret is jealous because I have a better rapport with the campers and I’m well liked. She thinks Margaret fears for her job. I have a wall full of awards from the government, and I would be the next in line to take over running the camp. But even if that were true, Margaret would move on to the New World, and her life would be wonderful. Maybe she’s scared of change. Or maybe she loves her career. Or maybe Gretchen’s not right. I look up at Gretchen, and her hands are trembling.
    “Why are you so scared?” I ask. “The needles? The machines? The Caretakers?” She only nods. I would imagine all of this would seem unfathomable to a girl who can’t run a quarter of a mile without running out of breath. Then Gretchen stands, seeming suddenly powerful and competent. She looks much bigger than her petite five-foot-tall frame. She looks me dead in the eyes.
    “You need to drink.” She pushes the glass of water into my hands. “Tonight and tomorrow. Then you must eat. The real food, not the food bars we eat to survive. You need to eat red meat and spinach and drink gallons of the algae drink they force on those girls. You must do this because if they have summoned you, they must be in desperate need of an O. And you must offer them enough so you…” She seems to be choosing her words carefully. “…so you are healthy enough to be summoned another day.”
    ****
    I toss and turn for hours. Partly because it’s much too early for me to be in bed, and part of it’s the heat and my concern over having been summoned myself. I see the silhouette of Gretchen, her chest rising and falling. Occasionally, her small body convulses slightly as she fights for a breath. Her hands clench and then relax when her breathing is restored to its nice, easy flow. I squeeze my eyes shut but all I see are images of machines, the size of my cabin, attached to me, sucking the very life from my body. When the girls come back to me, exhausted and anemic, it’s easy for me to carry them off the truck and into their beds where Gretchen is waiting with a warm nettle soup to rebuild their blood. But who will carry me? And more importantly, how will I help my girls if I’m too exhausted to help myself? I can’t take it anymore. I rise from my bed and silently steal across the room and out our door.
    Once I feel the warmth of the night, I remember that with all the craziness that happened tonight, I never picked my mushroom. Somehow, just realizing this makes me feel better. Now my wandering has a purpose.
    Despite the pitch black of night, I walk my usual path with no fear of getting lost. I have walked this way so many times I have forged a trail for myself. I can feel my way, the tall weeds, already broken under my feet. Occasionally, one will still stand tall and fight back, scratching my leg, reminding me this is his turf. Inevitably, the scratch makes me think of my mother and the first time she showed me my mushrooms. This drives me forward in search of my mushrooms and my mother.
    I reach my usual patch, but tonight I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to do anything the same way I normally do. Instead, I push ahead, feeling soggy ground, new reeds cracking under my boots. I am immediately sorry I didn’t stop to change from my shorts and tank top into long pants and sleeves, something that could offer me some protection. But it’s too damned hot anyway. As I walk, my mind is reeling. I try to understand my thoughts. I am uneasy, that’s for sure. But I came to this camp seven years ago to be called to the Letting, so what has changed? I was so confident then, so sure.
    I remember leaving on the day I had been harvested, a