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dress. “Charlotte Walker.”
    “Right hand out,” she demanded. I followed her orders and she pricked my index finger with a small metal box attached to a hypodermic needle. Then she pulled a small blood vial from the back of that box.
    “What the--, “I stammered. “Why did you need that?” I looked down at the small drop of blood oozing out of my index finger. She glared at me and didn’t answer. The hardness in her eyes silenced my protest.
    “Charlotte Walker,” she repeated to the woman next to her as she handed her the sample. “Age?” She directed her words at me, but not her face. To my right, the same happened in the line with the men. Fostino still watched me, squinting, with his full lips pulled together on his beautiful face.
    “Eighteen.”
    “Birthday?”
    “September 19 th .”
    “September 19 th ?”  The woman regarded me again.  Then she repeated herself in a robotic voice. “September 19 th ?” She frowned after she said the date again.
    “Yes,” I swallowed hard. I flushed as I felt sweat tickle onto my forehead. I prayed it didn’t drip onto her mountain of paperwork. 
    Why did that date matter?
    She wrote it down and gave her head a small shake before she picked up the line of question. She still wore no expression. “Skills? What will you provide for The War Effort?”
    I pursed my lips and froze. I tried to force the words out of my mouth, but they wouldn’t come.
    “Well?”
    “I know how to sew,” I managed, and then I added a few lines. “I sew very well. Really well. My mother taught me how, and I’ve made several dresses for myself and for her.” I pointed to my blue sack dress. “I even made this.” I pinched my thumb and index finger together before I said the next line.
    “I’ll be a good worker,” I smoothed on like butter. “I know how important it is for me to please our Dear Father, the Supreme Leader. I live to please him.” I raised my eyebrow and prayed my words convinced her. My hands shook in anticipation of what she would say. The second woman next to the blank-faced person in front of me spoke for the first time, but not to me.
    “Do we need more women her age?” she asked the first woman in a dismissive tone as she wrinkled her nose. She raised her left hand and focused her next words on me. “What are your other skills?”
    “I can follow orders?” I gulped.
    A beat passed. Both women just started at me. Then, the first woman snapped her fingers. “Go to the right,” she concluded and wrote a few words down on the papers. “Number OHHC-547,” she said as she handed me a plastic card with the number on it. “Hold on to this and join the group on the right,” she ordered, already focusing her attention on the woman in line behind me.
    I blinked at it before I shuffled toward where she pointed her long finger. There were already about 200 women in that group and about 10 children. I found Fostino’s mother and Farrah near the front of the group. They had wide, scared eyes. Farrah stared at me and held her mouth in a hard line. Some of the other women tried to hold back confused sobs. I reached the group in time to see my mother go through The Count.
    “Name?” the first woman barked at my mother.
    “Jean Walker.”
    “Birthday?”
    “D--December 14 th ,” my mother slurred. “Yeah. That’s it.” She rocked back at forth on her feet.
    Oh God. She was still drunk.
    “Skills?”
    My mother swayed a little again. I wondered if the women behind the table smelled the alcohol I knew lingered on her breath. “Did you skills?” my mom asked, her voice rising. “What skills? My skills…leave…a long time ago. Long, long, long time.” Then she laughed. “Guess if Maxwell Cooper wants to know—you can tell him I’m still available, honey.”
    The two women glanced at one another and then at the members of The Party.
    Stop this. I needed to stop this. Now.
    I stepped forward; a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I tried to