After a helluva day you need this crowded space to think things through. After all, it must have been four hours straight of office work, writing and analysis, sketching and translations. Midge in the cubicle next to you must've had a bad night, her cough was like a snoring bear set to constant growl.
Distractions like that can make you feel empty, as if you've lost the plot and forgot to plan the week's groceries or something.
Ah, walking, walking, with the tweeny birds keeping you company between the branches. You look up and glimpse the yellow around their eyeballs and feel like even they know something you don't.
"Believe in yourself," your builder used to tell you. She still does, as you repeat this line and others, frequently, in your mind. She must be with her partner Dan right now, only a few minutes away, settling into the new house. You are glad she met Dan and think that was a long time ago. He likes to listen to 70's rock and roll - Fleetwood Mack, Peter Frampton, Wings. You can dig, it was a different time then. People say it was radical, but the sounds seem pretty mellow to your ears. Like there is something being muffled.
Now you have to look forward - to what, not sure. But only five sleeps until your 17th birthday, the Day of Directions - DDay. And on your DDay you must decide which book to read, Yellow or Blue. That will give you direction forevermore.
The wind wooshes, a cool nudge, and your eyes look up to the treetops. There are so many leaves, so many you are glad you don't have to count them. That wouldn't be a job in either book, you think.
Where is there a Sorter amongst the leaves, you wonder aloud. You really need a Sorter to talk this through with. After all, it is not like you can just talk about things to anyone, talk about what is really going on, or what might go on. People just live and do things, sure they share a lot, but it feels weird that they can't speak about what's in their minds.
Why do you have this uneasy question, do other people think it too? Remember to ask Gemma, she is about as honest a talker as any friend you have. But she is different.
After about ten more minutes of walking on the forest trails, and a few more blurry headed puzzles forming themselves into questions, a Sorter appears, barely visible tucked beside a radiata pine tree.
"Hey," you say, and its eyes meet yours, invoking a chill.
"It feels strange, like the choice you will make is no one else's. While that is new for you, keep in mind you are being watched, which is not new," it says, in fizzy language that instantly warms your head.
"I know, but I do not know if the yellow book, which they say is easy to read, is better for me than the blue book, which I hear is more interpretive."
Not sure if the cicada or the Sorter starts the reply, which you know is final and starting with a tone rising up, up, up, to the advice: "Listen only to what you say, and the direction will be yours."
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