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ago.
    The camera zooms in now, capturing the heper’s uncertainty as 30
    ANDREW FUKUDA
    it gazes upward at something offscreen. Then, as if instructed, it gets up and walks to the chair. There is indecision in its every step, caution. Emotions pour nakedly off its face.
    A student shakes his head violently, drool trapezing outward, some of it landing on me. Saliva pours out of our mouths, colecting in smal pools on desks and the fl oor. Heads are half cocked sideways and back, bodies tensed. Everyone in a trance and a heightened sense of alertness.
    The news anchors have been silent.
    The heper reaches the chair, sits down. Again, eyes bulging wide, it looks offscreen for direction. Then it reaches into the hemp sack and takes out a bal. A number is printed on it: 3. It holds the bal up to the camera for a second, then puts it in the glass bowl.
    It takes a moment before we realize what’s just happened. The It takes a moment before we realize what’s just happened. The news anchors break their silence, their voices wet and blubbery with saliva. “We have the fi rst number, folks, we have the fi rst number. It’s three!” Loud groans al around, fi sts crumpling sheets of paper. The teacher in the back of the classroom whispers a cuss.
    I stare down at my own paper: 3, 16, 72, 87. Cooly, I cross out the number 3. Only a few classmates are stil in the running. It’s easy to spot them. Their eyes are sparkling with anticipation, drool running down their exposed fangs. Everyone else is unclenching now, muscles relaxing, mouths and chins being wiped. They slump in their chairs.
    The heper ner vous ly reaches for another number.
    16.
    More groans. I take my pen and cross out 16, a slight tremor in my fi ngers. Must hold the pen tighter, get my fi ngers under control.
    As far as I can tel, that last number took out the remaining contenders in the class. Except me. Nobody has noticed yet that I’m stil in the running. I kick out more saliva, let it run down my THE HUNT 31
    chin. I hiss a little, cock my head back. Heads fl ick toward me.
    Before long, a crowd has gathered around my desk.

    Before long, a crowd has gathered around my desk.
    The heper puls out the next number.
    72.
    There is a momentary, stunned silence. Then heads start bop-ping, knuckles cracking. My next number— 87—is chanted like a mantra. Somebody runs out, tels the adjacent classroom. I hear chairs scraping against the fl oor; moments later, they come fl ying in, crowding around me. Drool splatters on me from above; a few are hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down at my screen.
    News fl ies up and down the halways.
    My heart, like a claustrophobic rat in a cage, is out of control.
    Fear grips me. But for the moment, no one is looking at me; everyone is fi xated on the screen. Something is wrong with the heper. It’s shaking its head from side to side now, almost violently, eyes wide with fear. A naked, overwhelming display of emotion. A fruit suddenly fals from a smal opening in the ceiling. A red fruit, and the heper leaps for it, devouring it within seconds.
    “So disgusting,” somebody says.
    “I know, I can barely watch.”

    The heper takes a few steps toward the sack, is about to pul out the last number, when it pauses. It drops the sack and retreats to the far corner, where it crouches, hands over ears, eyes snapped shut.
    For a second, it lifts its head and stares offscreen. Then its eyes widen with fear, and its head shakes violently. It pins its head between its knees.
    “It doesn’t want to pick the last number,” a student whispers.
    “I told you,” my teacher says, “these hepers are smarter than they look. It somehow knows these numbers are for the Hunt.”
    The screen blacks out. The next shot is of the newsroom. The anchors are caught off guard. “Looks like we’re having technical 32 ANDREW FUKUDA
    diffi culties,” the male anchor says, quickly wiping his chin. “We should be back on air shortly.”
    But it