He ignored, as most citizens did, many of the commands and reminders read by the Speaker.
“Do I have to report it?” he asked his mother. She laughed. “You did, in the dream-telling. That’s enough.”
“But what about the treatment? The Speaker says that treatment must take place.”
Jonas felt miserable. Just when the Ceremony was about to happen, his Ceremony of Twelve,
would he have to go away someplace for treatment? Just because of a stupid dream?
But his mother laughed again in a reassuring, affectionate way. “No, no,” she said. “It’s just the pills.
You’re ready for the pills, that’s all. That’s the treatment for Stirrings.”
Jonas brightened. He knew about the pills. His parents both took them each morning.
And some of his friends did, he knew. Once he had been heading off to school with Asher, both of them on their bikes,
when Asher’s father had called from their dwelling doorway, “You forgot your pill, Asher!”
Asher had groaned good-naturedly, turned his bike, and ridden back while Jonas waited.
It was the sort of thing one didn’t ask a friend about because it might have fallen into that uncomfortable category of “being different.”
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