“Wait, please. Give her three more months. She may wake up!” A young girl, maybe twelve, yells at a boy only a few years older than her at the other end of the crowded room. They’re easily the youngest people here, and Lynell’s heart aches at what must have happened to them to cause the boy to use his Registration so early.

Most people in line are older, though there is a woman who looks close to Lynell’s age holding two babies in her arms. A man halfway down the line leans on a cane, his legs shaking and his glasses balancing precariously on the edge of his nose.

It’s a large room, probably twenty to twenty-five yards wide. The walls, floors and ceilings are white marble. There’s no way to look outside or in. The only windows in the room are the eleven clerk stations where lines form to Register. Above each window are two letters. The first, on the far-left side, says A-B. The next says C-D. And so on. Some, such as X-Z, have much shorter lines. Lynell knows what to do: stand in the line coordinating with the last name of the person you intend to Register. She’s walked inside the building and stood in line twice before, always chickening out at the last minute.

There are hundreds of people dispersed throughout the room. The young girl and boy stand behind a short, Black woman wearing a thin blue shawl in the U-W line.

With a deep breath, Lynell steps into the M-N line. There are probably thirty people ahead of her. Thirty people Registering. Thirty people being Registered. Thirty deaths in the next fourteen days. Thirty moments when some lives end and others mark the new beginning they so desperately crave.

Lynell looks at her watch. It’s almost 3:30 p.m., which means everyone in this time zone only has an hour and a half to Register before they must wait for July.

Lynell lowers her arm and sees a small scar peeking out from under the watch strap. Her stomach churning and heart palpating as if her own name were about to be Registered, she pulls down her sleeves. The unrelenting summer heat is no longer barreling down on her and the air-conditioned building starts cooling the sweat clinging to her skin.

She zips up her hoodie, tucks her fingers under the sleeves and pulls up the hood, as if to shield herself from the world.

She has no reason to hide. The Registration is good, pure, and just. People will not look down on her for Registering Alan.

She knows this, but she prays to remain unseen, nonetheless.

Sounds from the large building assault her ears as she rocks on her feet with her hands hiding in the pockets. Pens scratching on pages. Names spoken with a chilling finality. Crying. Whooping. Rustles of bags as people search for IDs. A cough from a small, frail, old woman clutching to her husband two lines over.