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each mitzvah you perform, the dutiful execution of your work assignments, and the fulfillment of your marriage contracts, each of you will bring us closer and closer to repairing humanity’s uncertain future.”
    She was staring at us. Everyone was—an audience of steady, piercing gazes, and my father’s eyes among them, most piercing of all. I could practically feel the weight of his expectations bearing down on me from above.
    “And now . . .” She paused, folding her hands in front of her. “It’s time to give you what you’ve been waiting for. Aleksandra, the scrolls?”
    The woman beside her stepped forward, hefting the basket in her arms. I saw now that each scroll was made of white paper, the smooth kind that cost a fortune. Each was tied with a ribbon and sealed with a bubble of wax. Some of the ribbons were brown and green. Those would go to the laborers—fieldworkers, shepherds, granary assistants, carpenters. I saw scattered silver ribbons, for merchants, and a dozencurling blue ribbons for specialists, too. I leaned forward, searching for a flash of bright color. But I didn’t see any tied with the yellow bow of an artisan.
    The woman came to stand by the captain’s side, holding the basket by its handles. Captain Wolff hesitated for a moment; then her lips parted into some semblance of a smile.
    “You know,” she said to the audience, her cold eyes sparkling and sharp, “I was so proud on the day when my daughter received her own assignment as a guard member. I knew she would serve our ship well—always dutiful, always obedient. She works so that we may all achieve tikkun olam . As I’m sure your children will.”
    There was an appreciative rumble of voices in the crowd. I glanced between Captain Wolff and Aleksandra. If it hadn’t been for the scar, I would have noted the family resemblance more readily. They had the same hawk nose, the same sharp features. The look was almost pretty on the younger woman. I wondered if Captain Wolff had been pretty once too, before the thresher did its work.
    She looked only scary now—scarier as she reached in and lifted the first scroll. We all sucked in our breath as she read off the name that was sewn into the brown ribbon—
    “Jamen Dowd. Granary worker.”
    —and exhaled when we realized that we weren’t the one being summoned to the podium. We watched as Jamen marched forward,his hands balled at his hips. Once he’d been a soft, silly boy, but the years since his bar mitzvah had hardened him. When Captain Wolff stopped him before he could stamp off, a frown creased his wide mouth. Still, she took his hand and gave it a stout shake.
    “Congratulations, Jamen,” she said.
    Jamen lowered his unkempt eyebrows and stalked off.
    Granary worker will fit him , I said to myself. Wouldn’t want him to have to talk to anybody. I scolded myself for the thought. Every assignment was important, no matter what my father always said. That’s what we’d learned in school.
    But it was hard to be happy for Deklan Levitt, a rail-thin, weasel-faced boy who was told that he would be a plowman. Or happy for the families who would be assisted with deliveries down in the hatchery by Ada Wyeth, a notorious bully who always wore a vicious scowl.
    But then Rachel’s name was called, and it was announced that she’d gotten the shop job she’d been hoping for. Her parents lifted their fists in the air, pumping them victoriously. My heart twisted in my chest. Sometimes it was hard to be friends with someone who always got whatever she wanted.
    I tried to steady my smile as Captain Wolff moved on to the next name and Rachel slid into the line beside me.
    “Koen Maxwell,” Captain Wolff said, holding a blue-ribboned scroll. Her inky eyes searched out a gangly chestnut-haired boy who wasknown for being good at math and not much else. She added, “Clock keeper.”
    I bit the insides of my cheeks in surprise, keeping my smile tight. That was my father’s title. I’d no