Over dinner, the twins argue about which one of them will get my kidneys once
I complete The Harvest.

  Tonight’s menu consists of a tender duck with cooked carrots and potatoes.
The duck is the star of the evening while the sides remain relatively untouched on
the girls’ plates. As I slice into the duck, the meat falling off the bone, I cannot help
but wonder who the twins will pair me with once they’ve cut me open. Maybe a
pancreas from a younger Carrier, or a heart from an Outlander, one that beats
stronger than mine. I am the duck, and for the parts that I lack, other Outlanders will
become the carrots and potatoes. Dishes that make up a whole meal, or parts that
come together to make an entire person.

  “The doctors say that my kidneys will only last one more year. You have three
years, Clarice! I need them both,” Meadows says with her mouth full of potatoes.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t have one and I can’t have the other. Don’t
you remember from class? You only need one functioning kidney to survive. She’s
got two,” Clarice reasons, waving her fork in the air as she speaks.

  My head swivels to and fro between the twins who are seated at opposite
ends of the colossal chestnut table. They usually sit together unless they are
fighting. Ever since the doctors found blood in Meadows’ urine two weeks ago, it’s
been a battle for their favorite doll every day. The war these young girls wage with
each other rivals the one that ended the world a thousand years ago.

  “You’ve always been awful at sharing, even when we were children. Why is it so
hard for you? Daddy, please tell her,” Clarice continues, looking to her father for help.
The twins’ voices begin to overlap, both trying to drown out the other. I focus on
dinner instead, knowing that this may as well be my last.

  The potatoes are divine. Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, cooked
to perfection in a way I was never capable of achieving back home. Not that we were
plentiful for potatoes in the Outlands—and definitely not for duck. I nod into my food,
satisfaction blossoming deep in my stomach, the warmth caressing me everywhere.
The carrots sit untouched on the fine china. I never much liked carrots, especially
cooked ones. My brother did though, so I always made them for him.

  His face, a memory I’ve foolishly allowed myself to become distracted by, is
what has me setting my fork down. My meal doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. I’m
careful not to let my face betray me. I am the perfect Carrier, happy to be of service
and not at all affected by the conversation of my certain death. After all, I gave
myself up to them. I want to die. Or, at least, that’s how I need to act if I’m going to
survive this place.

  “Girls, please, hush now. Your father had a very long day at work, and you know
he is in preparation for his transition. We’ll discuss this at a more appropriate time,”
the twins’ mother assures them, patting the hand of the daughter closest to her.

  It’s peaceful for a moment, quiet save for the scraping of silverware. I banish
the image of bronze eyes—alive with mischief and childlike curiosity, perhaps the last
time they ever looked into my own—back into the shadows of my mind where it
belongs. Wine helps dull the ache, pungent and bitter in my throat. I drink in gulps,
holding the glass for far too long with my lips parted. This is not the sophisticated
way of my owners’ people, but I am not their people. I am a wild animal, strange and
dangerous, from a foreign land of foreign people. A means to an end for the greater
good, for humanity. That’s what they tell themselves in order to sleep at night. If I am
an animal, then I am going to drink like an animal.

  Just as I finish my glass and shove another piece of duck into my mouth to get
rid of the taste, the arguing begins again.

  “Daddy, did you see the way she was drinking? She’s going to kill my liver
before it’s even inside of me.”

  “Your liver? Who says you get the liver?”

  “I say so because it’s mine.”

  “You are so entitled. Half of those organs are mine! Daddy, tell her she can’t do
that.”

  They’re actually mine, I want to say, but of course I don’t. There’s no sense in
rationalizing with these people. In their eyes, I am an incubator, sustaining the parts
they need until it is time for the transition to begin. They truly believe that the feet
that carry me, the hands that steady me, and the heart that beats to keep me alive
are all theirs. It is insane and preposterous and terrifically brilliant all at the same
time. The man who came up with the idea of The Harvest was a truly evil man. A bad
man who has condemned thousands of innocent people to their deaths, but there
was no denying that he was a brilliant one.

  “Enough, both of you. You’re giving me a migraine with all this nonsense. I’m not
taking anyone’s side. The doctors will decide when it’s time,” their father speaks
firmly, despite the sickly color that’s been clinging to his skin for weeks and the
hollowness of his cheeks. “Now, you two, go to your rooms. It’s getting late and we
need to ensure you’re getting enough rest.” He waves his hand in clear dismissal. He
isn’t talking to his daughters this time.

  I rise at the same time the boy does, our chairs scraping against the tiled floor.
The girls are pouting. Clarice's head rests in the palm of her hand, elbow resting
against the table. Meadows crosses her arms in defiance, piercing her sister with a
sinister look. Their mother swirls the red wine in her glass, little legs forming on the
crystal over and over again. Her husband looks tired, like a spirit that’s ready to move
onto the next world but is stuck forever in this one, tortured by the life he once knew.

That means it’s almost time. I look to the boy as we’re being led out of the dining
area to our rooms, and I wonder if he knows this too.

  We come to the end of a long hallway, all the way in a corner of the house, with
two rooms facing each another. The servants bow before us, one no older than I and
the other woman elderly, her face sagging and back shaking unevenly as she bends
over. It looks as though she may tumble over the further her back bows and breaks,
the bones contorting before my very own eyes. I reach out to steady her, gripping
her by the upper arm that is sharp and bony beneath my fingers. She startles at the
contact, flinching away from my touch.

  I know I’ve made a mistake then, putting my hands on her. The boy next to me
inhales sharply, his eyes fixated on the profile of my face. The young servant takes a
step back, revulsion set deep in her brows. I wait with bated breath for the old
woman to make a move.

  She doesn’t scream though. She doesn’t raise her hand to strike me or spit on
me. The old woman clasps hands with the young servant next to her, still standing
before me and the boy. I look at him, heart racing, skin on fire, ready to run, and he
looks back at me, gray eyes wild and afraid. For me, or for himself?

  We stand a few feet away from each other but worlds apart. They were raised in
wealth, fortune, and security, never having to worry about their next meal or if they’d
live to see the sun rise the next day. The boy and I grew up with dirt under our nails,
smoke in our lungs, and hearts that weren’t meant to belong to us forever.

  Eventually, the old woman bows once more, taking the young servant down with
her as she bends. When she rises and her blue eyes finally take me in, wrinkled with
age that is uncommon among my people, I am surprised there is no disgust in them
from my touch. There is no expression of abhorrence or horror. It is much worse.

  She looks haunted, absolutely tormented. The feeling exists in her sunken-in
cheekbones, the purse of her lips, the way her skin sags with exhaustion. The bags
under her eyes are prominent and dark, accentuated by the gray hair that’s pulled
back into a neat bun. This is nothing compared to the weight of her stare: an abyss of
despair that is everlasting. I look at her looking at me, and I wonder how many times
she’s had to do this before—how many times she has pampered someone, day in
and day out, fattening them up with duck and potatoes one day just to send them to
their graves the next.

  They’re gone as quickly as they came, their footsteps soft whispers against the
carpet as they walk down the hallway and out of sight. I watch long after they’re
gone, waiting for something, someone, to reprimand me. I’ve touched one of them.
I’ve broken their most sacred rule. They’ll punish me for this. Hang my body in the
streets or stick my head on one of the pikes that stand at the wall. Minutes pass, but
nobody comes for me. The old woman didn’t tell the Lord.

  I reach for the doorknob of my room numbly. It’s not really a room but rather a
prison cell that locks me in and keeps me enclosed within its four walls. An animal

inside the cage until the humans feel like playing with me again. The boy behind me
does the same; I hear the distinct creak of hinges as it opens. I didn’t realize he stood
beside me still.

  The door is heavy underneath the palm of my hand as I hold it open. My bed is
made in the corner of the room, a bed much too large for one person, decorated in
fine silks and luxurious pillowcases. I’ve never had a pillow before. Never had anything
more than a cot, a small thing that my brother and I shared.

  A chill erupts down my spine and along my arms, the flesh raised in
goosebumps. It paralyzes my senses, dulls my mind, weakens me. This whole house
is cold and sterile; the warmth from the outside can’t penetrate these steely walls. If
this place is an ice castle, then the people in it are an Ice King, Ice Queen, Ice
Princesses, and Ice Servants. The chill makes my hair stand on end, as if sensing a
threat around the corner. There is peril in this home, in the houses surrounding it, and
all through Electi. This is a city of butchers, and I am the lamb. I have come to a
dangerous place full of dangerous people. But I remind myself that I am dangerous
too. I’ll stop at nothing to get my brother back.

  Before I let the door close behind me, I turn back to the entrance, my slender
silhouette facing the hallway. The boy’s door is also open halfway, his strong shoulder
leaning against it with ease. He swallows up almost the entire entryway, his dirty
blonde hair brushing the door frame. I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he
came from, and I don’t know why. Maybe he offered himself to Electi, like I did,
though I couldn’t see why he would. He looks a year or two ahead of me, nowhere
near old enough to have a family he’d sacrifice himself for. That only leaves one
option—he’s been Marked by the city’s symbol, the brand hiding somewhere behind
his ear.

  There are many things I do not know about him. I don’t want to know either. In a
place like this, trust is poison, and I won’t let it pass through my lips. I can’t carry the
weight that comes with caring about another person. Everything I have in me, every
ounce of courage, madness, and sacrifice is to save my brother. The boy that is
chained across from me will just become another ghost that is bound to these halls
forevermore.

  There are two things I am sure of, though. One, he is meant for the Lord of the
house, who is nearing the end of the line far sooner than the twins. He doesn’t have
much time before the transition. The room across my hall will be empty until they
find someone for the Lady, who had her most recent Harvest two years ago. I will be
alone in this—truly alone.

  The second took me some time to figure out. I couldn’t understand why we
were required to wear these numbered shirts in the house, or why they referred to
me as the number rather than my given name. Surely they knew my name, having
reviewed my file, my viable organs, and how they would be distributed to the twins.
But they kept calling me by the number instead. It wasn’t until last week, when the

Lord and Lady were talking at the dinner table about a previous Carrier, that I
learned what it meant. The truth of it hit me everywhere, a thousand knives carving
the number into my skin over and over, even after I thought I’d bleed out with the
pain of all those who came before me and all those who would come after.

  The boy wears a white long-sleeve shirt, paired with simple black pants and
socks with holes in them. His shirt bulges and stretches to accommodate his
muscles, clinging tightly around his arms and across his chest. I do not admire his
physique though, the same way I know he is not admiring mine as his slate-gray eyes
pierce into me.

  I fixate on the number 35 across the expanse of his torso, big and bold, as if
written into the law itself. In a way, I suppose it is. Mine is too. I am not Indigo
Ashbourne in this place. Here, I am 36.

  His number, the only name I have to call him, is the last thing I see before we
both close our doors.

  35 and 36. This is who we are now. There will be a 37 and a 38, just as there was
a 33 and 34. All the people who died so that this family could stay alive. We are just
numbers to them. Numbers, incubators, animals. Never human. Never worth keeping
alive, because if we were, that would mean the end of their people.

  I think of Oak before I go to sleep that evening, as I do every night. I see his
innocent face in my mind, so young and untouched by the disappointment that was
our lives in Krueling. The sunrays used to catch light on his deep brown skin in the
early hours of the morning, painting him in hues of orange and pink when the sun
ascended over the horizon. He’d shuffle in his sleep at the disturbance, using the
covers as a shield. It would always make me laugh. My baby brother, who is
everything good in this world.

  I will find you, I resolve, trying to reach out to him. Every night, I try to bring him
back to me from out of the darkness and into the light, back into those early
mornings in our bed when the sun would only come alive when it met my brother’s
warmth. I wait for him to call out to me, to tell me he’s alright. I tell him I’ll get him out
of there and we’ll run away to wherever safe is.

  He never answers.