Free Matched by Ally Condie

frozen. Now, for him, death may not necessarily be the end. Someday, the Society might figure out a way to bring us back. They don’t promise anything, but I think we all know that it will happen eventually. When has the Society ever failed in reaching a goal?
    The man next to her speaks. “The food for your guests and your own final meal should arrive within the hour.” He leans over to hand Grandfather a printed menu card. “Are there any last-minute modifications you would like to make?”
    Grandfather looks at the card and shakes his head. “Everything looks in order.”
    “Enjoy your Final Banquet, then,” the man says, pocketing the card.
    “Thank you.” There is a wry twist to Grandfather’s mouth as he says this, as though he knows something they don’t.
    As the Committee leaves, they all shake Grandfather’s hand and say, “Congratulations.” And I swear that I can read Grandfather’s mind as he meets their gaze with his sharp eyes. Are you congratulating me on my life, or on my death?
     
    “Let’s get this over with,” Grandfather says with a spark in his eye, looking at the tissue collection device, and we all laugh at his tone. Grandfather swabs his own cheek, puts the sample in the clear glass tube, and seals it shut. Some of the solemnity leaves the room now that the Committee has gone.
    “Everything’s going very well,” Grandfather says, handing the tube to my father. “I am having a perfect death so far.”
    My father winces, an expression of pain crossing his face. I know he, like me, would prefer that Grandfather not use that word, but neither of us would think of correcting Grandfather today. The pain on my father’s face makes him look younger, almost like a child for a moment. Perhaps he remembers his mother’s death—so unusual, so difficult compared to a Final Banquet like this.
    After today, he will be no one’s child.
    Even though I don’t want to, I think of the murdered Markham boy. No celebration. No tissue preparation, no good-byes. That hardly ever occurs, I remind myself. The odds of that happening are almost a million to one.
    “We have some gifts for you,” Bram says to Grandfather. “Can we give them to you now?”
    “ Bram ,” my father says reproachfully. “Perhaps he wants to get the microcard ready for viewing. He has guests on the way.”
    “I do want to do that,” Grandfather says. “I’m looking forward to seeing my life pass before my eyes. And I’m looking forward to the food.”
    “What did you choose?” Bram asks, eager. The selections for Grandfather and his guests are the same, but it is an actual law that we must eat the food from the trays and he must eat the food on his plate. We’re not allowed to share.
    “All desserts,” Grandfather says with a grin. “Cake. Pudding. Cookies. And something else. But let me see your gift before we do any of that, Bram.”
    Bram beams. “Close your eyes.”
    Grandfather obeys and holds out his hand. Bram places the rock gently into Grandfather’s palm. A few particles of earth fall on the blanket covering Grandfather, and my mother reaches to brush them away. But at the last second, she pulls her hand back and smiles. Grandfather won’t mind the dirt.
    “A rock,” Grandfather says, opening his eyes and looking down. He smiles at Bram. “I have a feeling I know where you found it.”
    Bram grins and ducks his head. My grandfather holds on tight to the rock. “Who’s next, then?” he asks, almost merrily.
    “I’d like to give my gift later, during the good-byes,” my father says quietly.
    “That won’t leave me very much time to enjoy it,” Grandfather teases.
    Suddenly self-conscious about my letter—I don’t want him to read it in front of everyone—I say, “Me too.”
    There is a knock on the door: some of Grandfather’s friends. A few minutes after we let them in, more arrive. And more. And then the nutrition personnel, with all of Grandfather’s desserts—his last