Tomorrow is the day you have been waiting for and you feel like you might be sick. This is not possible, considering you have not eaten in nearly two days, but the feeling is there – a swirling storm of what you can only assume is nerves. As you climb into bed, the feeling escalates. Could this be your last time sleeping in your own bed?
    You slip under the covers, turning off the lamp beside you. The day has been long and full of stress, and the silk sheets stretched over your mattress sooth your sore muscles. You try to quiet your thoughts, to put your mind to rest just for a few hours.
    You turn on your side, then again onto your back. Your stomach rumbles. Your mind feels cloudy, so you close your eyes and rub your temples. You continue to toss and turn, full of worry. You cannot decide whether or not you want to fail or pass. So many things will change either way. Your mind stays full and awake until your alarm blares at eleven fifty.
    Aggravated with yourself, you step out of bed once again and pull on a thin blue robe. It is cold against your skin. You leave your feet bare and walk to the small, single person elevator at the other side of the room. Since you were a child, your hand has yearned to reach out and press the button marked 'TEST.' You had wanted to find how your life would play out, but now, you wish you could go back to your carefree childhood. Now, your fingers tremble as you let just the pads of them run over it. The button lights up green and your still room rockets away as you speed underground.
    The ride down is longer than you imagined it would be. You had heard from older participants the ride would be stressful, but you never anticipated the wave of self doubt that came along with it. You rub your face with sweaty palms, wondering what will become of you if you do not pass. At least you will help people – but would you rather improve lives, or live?
    The elevator comes to a stop on the very bottom floor to reveal a subtle turquoise room. The lights have been dimmed – the room is so dark, in fact, you find it hard to see. The linoleum floor is cold on the balls of your feet as you approach the small cot in the middle of the room. A man stands behind it with his arms crossed behind his back. He motions for you to lay down and moves to the end of the bed.
    “Thank you for joining us.”
    The man opens a drawer underneath your cot. He takes out a single needle. You notice his hands are shaking slightly.
    “The test consists of a blood sample. Please extend your left arm.”
    Your mind races. All of the survivors you had talked to had refused to say what the test was, exactly, and you had always figured it would be grueling. But a blood sample?
    You do as he says and lay out your left arm. The man rubs an alcoholic pad over a vein and inserts the needle, making you flinch. You know he is about to start the official explanation of the test. He opens his mouth and begins to speak.
    “As you know, forty-seven years ago, natural termination of all life stopped.”
    “And, as you know, people stopped physically aging after their twenty-first year of life.” His speech pattern is rehearsed, but there is an inflection that suggests he is nearly as nervous as you.
    “But on the inside, aging continues. It is only possible, now, for life to end due to illness.” Your breath catches in your throat as the man pulls up on the syringe, drawing your blood into it.
    “And — organs fail.” He refuses to meet your eyes. No reason to become attached to someone you may be sentencing to death.
    “Because of this, we need donors to replace the Lucky Ones' necessary pieces and parts.” You shift slightly as he pulls the needle out of your arm.
    “And we can have only the healthiest move onto eternal life.” The man moves for the drawer again.
    “So at twenty-one, the age you turned —” he checks his watch. “ – three minutes and thirty two, thirty three seconds ago – we test to see if you will move on, to your next stage of...” He hesitates, stuck on the word. “...life.”
    He inserts the needle that was just in your arm into a handheld computer. Squeezing the end of the syringe, he slowly pushes your blood into a clear container attached to the underside. You watch as one at a time, the lights on the back blink on and off again. The man wipes off the needle and returns it to the drawer, then motions for you to sit up. You obey.
    He stands in front of you with the small computer in his hands, and your heart beats faster. You know it is noble to die for the Lucky Ones, and that most everyone does. You know either way you will be satisfied, even if unequally between the outcomes. Yet that small part of your mind, the one unreachable by reason, keeps its certainty that you will be chosen. That soon the man will look up with a congratulatory grin, and show you the results.
    The lights turn off one at a time, and do not come back on. Your heart is racing and the sick feeling from earlier, from yesterday, returns. The impossible sickness. The man looks up expressionless, and turns around the computer for you to see.
    Full Health: Negative. You grip your stomach and let your eyes travel farther down the screen.
    Semi Health: Negative. Patient not liable for donation. You look up at the man in confusion, unable to speak. Tears form in the corners of your eyes and slip softly down your cheeks.
    The man turns away. “In a few rare cases, patients have contracted a terminal illness before testing.” Your stomach is squeezing, and it doesn't feel like nerves anymore. You gasp in pain.
    “These patients cannot donate, nor can they move on to eternal life.” The man takes off his rubber gloves and turns to you again, finally making eye contact.
    “These patients are terminated immediately.”
    You begin to sob harder, your face becoming a wet mess and snot drips past your mouth. The man puts his arm around you and squeezes, burying his face in your hair before standing you up. You cross the floor, back to the elevator, slowly. The lights seem even lower than they were when you first entered. You are crying so hard you are having trouble seeing out of your watery eyes, and the man helps guide you into the glass tube-like room. He closes the door and you have the urge to bang on it, to shame him into opening it. It is only as he presses a few buttons and turns to face you once more that you notice he is crying, too. He presses a hand to the glass.
    You plunge into darkness.