curls go every which way. “Quit!” Sid laughs and bats my hand away. “Now I’ve got to comb it again!” “Better get on it!” I tell him. He runs off and I drop the striker down my collar, not ready to share it with the world, not on reaping day. I’ve got a few minutes to spare, so I head into town to trade. The air’s turned heavy and still, promising a storm. My stomach clenches at the sight of the square, plastered with posters and crawling with
