I study her while she focuses on putting in a fresh roll of film. Her long black hair is swept back over her bare shoulders, a diamond necklace resting delicately across her neck. The tattoo of her family sigil—an open palm holding a flame—takes up most of her back and disappears underneath her corset. We were all made to get our family sigils tattooed on our backs when we turned eighteen, the same year that we were officially eligible for the Lottery.
