The Hunt

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UNTIL I CRAWLED BENEATH THE designated Dumpster behind the abandoned Linens-N-Things and felt the brush of rough canvas against my fingertips, I really wasn’t sure that the emergency bag would be there, as my father had promised.

My first Christmas, I’d been six. It had also been the first time Outside matched the color and sparkle of what I’d seen on television and in my “cultural training” videos in the lab at GTX. The houses in our neighborhood had been decked out with flashing Santas, red-nosed reindeer, and molded plastic Nativity scenes. And through cracks in the blinds, I’d watched people carry in plastic bags full of presents, brightly colored wrapping paper tubes poking through the top.

This strange but wonderful event—so much preparation and fuss over it—called to me in the worst way. I longed to be a part of it. But our living room remained dark and undecorated, the carpeting empty of pine needles and shiny wrapped packages alike, even on Christmas Day. In our house, it was just another day. Worse, even, as my father retreated to his room and didn’t come out until the following morning. I was alone. And confused. According to lore, only “naughty” children were punished by an absence of gifts. But I’d done everything I knew to do, followed precisely the Rules my father had given me.

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