Kyla had just washed her hands for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was one of her rituals to calm herself down. Often it worked. This time it almost certainly wouldn’t. She sat down beside me on my bed, looking as distraught as we all felt. The mood in the room was sombre. It was an oppressive silence, heavier than at any viewing or coroner’s office. Even my two little cousins understood the gravity of what was coming tonight.

D-day, the cull, relative roulette. It went by many euphemistic names, none of which could mask the horror of such a practice.

I heard the crunch of gravel outside as yet another car pulled into our driveway.

“It’s probably Aunt June and Uncle,” said Kyla.

Aunt June was our dad’s sister. She and our uncle had three kids who were all older than me. All boys. I couldn’t really picture their faces. The last time I’d seen them, I was a lot younger. But I could never forget what they’d done to me. I was bullied mercilessly for my stuttering. It never stopped when I was around them. Maybe I wouldn’t mind if one of them got chosen.

The thought made me sick to my stomach. No matter what they’d done, a fifteen-year-old shouldn’t think that way. Nobody deserved to consider this.

Which family member they wouldn’t mind to die.

But what he thought was irrelevant. The Environmental and Viral Information Lobby had given this as the easiest solution. They had some of the world’s leading population experts, why not trust them? Besides it was obvious they’d been right. My parents had a fair bit of money and we lived in a nice house. Yet, we were all gaunt, bordering on serious hunger. Even after five years of the policy, even with all the new technologies, the world couldn’t keep up. There were just too many people.

My mind wandered back to five years ago, when the President had given his Population Emergency address. At ten, I had known enough to understand what was being proposed.

“Every family will have to play their part in this crisis. For the good of all of us, and for our planet,” he’d said. He’d had a concerned look plastered across his face. But no politician-speak could make this go down easy.

One family member a year.

And thus, began our tradition of family reunions. Only there were no old stories shared, or political debates to be had. Nobody even had enough food to waste on a meal. All we did was pick sticks—god help you if you got the shortest one. I’d seen what it did to my older brother. Having to choose who died last year had had him following soon after. Maybe that’s why we did it this way: Kill two birds with one stick, if you will.

A voice called out to us from downstairs. It was grandpa. It was time. My heart slammed continuously against my ribs. The sense dread almost drowned me with its intensity. We all got up and got ready to go. Who would be this year’s reaper? Who would descend into hell tonight?

I bowed my head and prayed to a god I didn’t believe in that I would be neither.