“But there are two of us now,” Jonas said eagerly. “Together we can think of something!”
The Giver watched him with a wry smile. “Why can’t we just apply for a change of rules?” Jonas suggested.
The Giver laughed; then Jonas, too, chuckled reluctantly.
“The decision was made long before my time or yours,” The Giver said, “and before the previous Receiver, and—” He waited.
“Back and back and back.” Jonas repeated the familiar phrase. Sometimes it had seemed humorous to him.
Sometimes it had seemed meaningful and important. Now it was ominous. It meant, he knew, that nothing could be changed.
The newchild, Gabriel, was growing, and successfully passed the tests of maturity that the Nurturers gave each month;
he could sit alone, now, could reach for and grasp small play objects, and he had six teeth.
During the daytime hours, Father reported, he was cheerful and seemed of normal intelligence.
But he remained fretful at night, whimpering often, needing frequent attention.
“After all this extra time I’ve put in with him,” Father said one evening after Gabriel had been bathed and was lying,
for the moment, hugging his hippo placidly in the small crib that had replaced the basket,
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