Chapter 2 Hiring Results

Four days after registration closed, on an ordinary afternoon, Sarah and Claire finished handing out the last stack of supermarket flyers in town. They dragged themselves toward the run-down house and planned to grab a quick bite.

Just as they reached the corner, they saw Percy rushing out in a panic.

His old shirt was buttoned wrong, and he clutched several dirty bills in his hand—no one could say whether he'd won them or just stolen them. He ran toward the underground gambling den without looking back.

Sarah and Claire exchanged a glance. Relief washed over both of them.

"Finally gone," Sarah said.

Claire grabbed Sarah's wrist and pulled her toward the house. "Hurry. We've got at least two hours of peace. I might even sing out loud in the living room."

They pushed open the loose door. The place still reeked of stale beer and cheap cigarettes. But Sarah didn't care. Without that malicious stare, the air felt lighter.

Claire flopped onto the stained old couch the way she always did.

"Something's poking me," she muttered, reaching under herself and pulling out an envelope.

When she saw the blank envelope with only a black coded postmark, Claire's expression froze.

"Sarah," she said, her voice trembling as she jumped up from the couch, "it's the notification letter. The one we've been waiting for."

Sarah's heart clenched. She stopped breathing.

Claire tore open the envelope and stared at the thin printed letter. Her emotions took over completely.

"Oh my god." She wrapped her arms around Sarah's neck and spun them both around. "I got in. I got a spot. The last one—number fifty. I made it!"

Sarah could barely breathe in the hug, but she forced out a smile. "That's great, Claire. Really great."

"The letter says we need to gather at Westen Rust Foundry tomorrow morning. A special bus will take volunteers to the site." Claire held the letter up to Sarah's eyes. "This came yesterday. That bastard must have tossed it on the couch like junk. If we hadn't found it today, we would have missed everything."

Her face flushed with excitement, then she looked at the empty couch. "Quick, look for yours. Where's your letter?"

Sarah stood frozen. She stared at the shabby couch. Aside from the opened envelope, it was bare.

"Maybe it fell on the floor," Claire said urgently, lifting the couch cushions. "Or got stuffed underneath."

Nothing under the cushions. Nothing under the coffee table or by the TV stand. They checked every corner of the living room, every scrap of paper.

Ten minutes later, Claire stood panting in the middle of the room. Sarah leaned against the wall, completely drained. The space around them seemed to press inward.

"This can't be happening," Claire said, shaking her head and biting her lower lip. "We submitted our applications together."

"I clicked submit thirty seconds after you," Sarah said, her voice shaking.

She had been too timid. She had hesitated before pressing the button. Fear of the unknown had cost her the only chance to escape.

Claire was number fifty. The last spot. No extra positions.

"Sarah, don't be like this," Claire said, looking at her pale face, her eyes reddening. "I won't go. If you didn't get selected, I'll give up my spot too. I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Wake up. That's fifty thousand dollars." Sarah forced back her tears, her voice hoarse as she shouted. "You have to go, Claire. Take this chance and get out."

"I don't care about the money," Claire said, her sadness spilling over. "This isn't fair. You're the one having the hardest time. You even got into Silverpeak College. Why can't this opportunity come to you?"

She kicked hard at the plastic trash can in the corner.

The can toppled over. Rotten food scraps, empty bottles, and waste paper spilled across the floor, giving off a disgusting smell.

Among the mess, a crumpled envelope stained with yellow grease rolled out.

Sarah and Claire both froze.

Claire didn't care about the filth. She stepped forward, picked up the envelope, wiped off the dirt, and saw the name on it.

"Sarah," she said, her voice catching. Her hands shook as she opened the envelope.

She pulled out the equally grease-stained letter, scanned a few lines, and threw her arms around Sarah. "You got in too. You were selected."

Sarah reached out with trembling hands and took the foul-smelling letter.

[Dear Ms. Sarah Ward: Based on your psychology background and personal qualities, this project has listed you as a specially recruited volunteer, number fifty-one. Please arrive at Westen Rust Foundry on time tomorrow.]

Special recruitment. Number fifty-one.

Before they could even breathe, a critical problem immediately presented itself—