Sunrise on the Reaping

Ten minutes from now, who will even still have a heartbeat?

I will never see Lenore Dove again. Never hear her laugh coming from high above me in the branches. Never feel the warmth of her in my arms as we lay on a bed of pine needles, my lips pressed into the hollow of her neck. Never pull a stray goose feather from her hair, or listen to her play her tune box, or press my finger into the crease that forms between her eyebrows when she’s puzzling out a thought. Never see her face brighten at a bag of gumdrops or a full moon or the sound of me whispering, “I love you like all-fire.”

Like all the Covey, music in her blood. But not like them, too. Less interested in pretty melodies, more in dangerous words.