Free Giver Trilogy 01 - The Giver by Lois Lowry

if
others—adults
—had, upon becoming Twelves, received in
their
instructions the same terrifying sentence?
    What if they had all been instructed:
You may lie?
    His mind reeled. Now, empowered to ask questions of utmost rudeness—and promised answers—he
could,
conceivably (though it was almost unimaginable), ask someone, some adult, his father perhaps: "Do you lie?"
    But he would have no way of knowing if the answer he received were true.

10
    "I go in here, Jonas," Fiona told him when they reached the front door of the House of the Old after parking their bicycles in the designated area.
    "I don't know why I'm nervous," she confessed. "I've been here so often before." She turned her folder over in her hands.
    "Well, everything's different now," Jonas reminded her.
    "Even the nameplates on our bikes," Fiona laughed. During the night the nameplate of each new Twelve had been removed by the Maintenance Crew and replaced with the style that indicated citizen-in-training.
    "I don't want to be late," she said hastily, and started up the steps. "If we finish at the same time, I'll ride home with you."
    Jonas nodded, waved to her, and headed around the building toward the Annex, a small wing attached to the back. He certainly didn't want to be late for his first day of training, either.
    The Annex was very ordinary, its door unremarkable. He reached for the heavy handle, then noticed a buzzer on the wall. So he buzzed instead.
    "Yes?" The voice came through a small speaker above the buzzer.
    "It's, uh, Jonas. I'm the new—I mean—"
    "Come in." A click indicated that the door had been unlatched.
    The lobby was very small and contained only a desk at which a female Attendant sat working on some papers. She looked up when he entered; then, to his surprise, she stood. It was a small thing, the standing; but no one had ever stood automatically to acknowledge Jonas's presence before.
    "Welcome, Receiver of Memory," she said respectfully.
    "Oh, please," he replied uncomfortably. "Call me Jonas."
    She smiled, pushed a button, and he heard a click that unlocked the door to her left. "You may go right on in," she told him.
    Then she seemed to notice his discomfort and to realize its origin. No doors in the community were locked, ever. None that Jonas knew of, anyway.
    "The locks are simply to insure The Receiver's privacy because he needs concentration," she explained. "It would be difficult if citizens wandered in, looking for the Department of Bicycle Repair, or something."
    Jonas laughed, relaxing a little. The woman seemed very friendly, and it was true—in fact it was a joke throughout the community—that the Department of Bicycle Repair, an unimportant little office, was relocated so often that no one ever knew where it was.
    "There is nothing dangerous here," she told him.
    "But," she added, glancing at the wall clock, "he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
    Jonas hurried through the door and found himself in a comfortably furnished living area. It was not unlike his own family unit's dwelling. Furniture was standard throughout the community: practical, sturdy, the function of each piece clearly defined. A bed for sleeping. A table for eating. A desk for studying.
    All of those things were in this spacious room, though each was slightly different from those in his own dwelling. The fabrics on the upholstered chairs and sofa were slightly thicker and more luxurious; the table legs were not straight like those at home, but slender and curved, with a small carved decoration at the foot. The bed, in an alcove at the far end of the room, was draped with a splendid cloth embroidered over its entire surface with intricate designs.
    But the most conspicuous difference was the books. In his own dwelling, there were the necessary reference volumes that each household contained: a dictionary, and the thick community volume which contained descriptions of every office, factory, building, and committee. And the Book of Rules, of