When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Primˇs warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. Thereˇs enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my motherˇs body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Primˇs face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Primˇs knees, guarding her, is the worldˇs