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more vocal.
    “It’s a bit strange that they suddenly swarmed the streets. There must be a reason.”
    I laugh, but the sound is muted, as if the room is sucking up any suggestion of emotion. “The Rads don’t need a reason. They’re terrorists. They delight in causing a ruckus, damaging morale.” I am saying what I’ve been trained to say. We are taught to be alert to people questioning the government. Being in the field that I am, I cannot allow any hint of disloyalty in my life.
    Shale stares at me with that curious expectant expression before he nods and turns away.
    There is a knock at the door. Shale answers and my mother steps through, royal in her purple uniform.
    “Mother,” I say. “Won’t you sit down? Would you like a cup of tea?”
    “No, thank you.” She remains by the door. “I came by to see how your appointment went at the Match Clinic.”
    This is a rhetorical statement, an attempt at a rude awakening. My mother likely already knows I haven’t been successful this month. Therefore, she will try to get me to see that I need to redouble my efforts so I can be considered for emigration. I am not sure if it is lost on her that there is not much I can do in the matter that I am not already doing. She got pregnant on the first try all three times, and I suspect that to her, it is my fault that I am not pregnant already. I don’t need to ask her how she knows I am not pregnant or that I had my appointment this morning—she used to be an obstetrician, and is now one of the heads of the Center for Protection of Progeny.
    “It was only my first attempt,” I say. I don’t dare look at Shale. I don’t like that he sees me in this compromising situation. A Husband must have utmost faith in his female at all times. Otherwise, he is prone to panic. After Shale’s display about the cleanliness of my desk, I’m afraid it won’t take much to tip him back over.
    “And may well be your last, according to the reports on the NNB. Taking your supplements, are you?”
    “Yes.”
    She nods curtly. “I’ve been granted the right to emigrate—the papers came this morning. Orion and I have made the decision to leave by the end of the year, before the bottlenecking causes major riots.”
    It is clear what she means. She is leaving with or without me.
    I am silent as she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.
     
    The atmosphere at work the next morning is subdued, as if we are all holding our breaths at once, waiting for permission to exhale. When my computer terminal beeps, I almost drop my cup of tea.
    I check the message and my heart beats faster. It’s another list from the Toronto Asylum, this one of patients who have been moved. Patients are very rarely moved around. It is a flight risk, as well as a waste of valuable resources. Once they are locked in, most patients spend their days in the same place. Two sets of patients moved from the same Asylum in fourteen days is unprecedented. But I do not have any other information or any way to check into this phenomenon further.
    I am entering the information into the database as usual when my computer beeps again. My hand begins to tremble slightly as I click on the message. Something is happening. Something big, although I do not understand it yet. Are they moving yet more patients?
    But no. This is not a list of patients being moved. I look at the alphanumerical list, coded so no one can decipher the names of the patients. The next column over, titled Action Taken , contains yet another, shorter code. It is not one I have memorized. To be sure, I open the file that contains an explanation of the codes.
    067: Demise.
    I close out the file and stare at the message, at the list of names. One hundred and twenty two patients have died, all on the same day, all within a few minutes of one another.
    What is going on?
    I look around, but no one else seems to be bothered. Of course, we are all working on different pieces of the puzzle. Nobody knows what comes