It was beside me on the bed when I woke up — the little bag to pack my most cherished belongings before leaving to take the test. Our dorm has eight living in one great room and none of us heard anything in the night. No one ever does. This is the second time this week. The other bed is still empty. The news of my test spreads like lightning. People are differential, but mostly avoiding me. What can they say? “Good on your test, bud. Wish it was my turn…not.” We live for the test. Years go by, sometimes, before a person gets visited in the night by the bag messenger. We’ve all heard stories of people spending their entire lives without taking the test. That’s the worse fate, I guess. But it’s not mine. I’ll take mine today. I have a whole day to myself to say goodbye to my friends and teachers, to the only family I’ve ever known, to the only place I remember ever living. I don’t have much to pack. We are all issued identical uniforms and supplies. That’s why the bag is so little — I can only take a memento or two…
