Finally, the day arrived when I would take my first vows. I dressed in the plain grey pants and sleeveless shirt that Mom had sewn for me. I spent most of the day alone, away from others, according to the custom. I had read up on rites of passage enough to know it was standard to separate the inductee from the community before she is reintegrated with her new status. The intellectual understanding of it from books and the real experience of it were as different as reading a cookbook and eating, for throughout the day I could feel how inappropriate it would be for me to be around others right then. I didn't just understand the necessity of my being alone, I craved the loneliness as much as I both craved and feared the rites I knew would come at the end of it.

    During these hours alone, I fasted and tried to prepare myself mentally for the commitment and devotion necessary. I had also read enough to know that my time alone and my attempts to contact the higher, non-physical or metaphysical powers of the world would have been called "prayer" in the old world. It was still a fair enough label, if one could subtract all the trappings of organized religion-which I knew about only from the books I had read, and a few scattered comments from older people, who seemed ambivalent about it, overall. Organized religion was as alien to our life as were the concepts of state and government and money. But just as we retained the need and desire to be in a community with others, so also we yearned to commune and unite with something more than our own weak, mortal selves, even if every creed and sect that had ever promised such a union were now dead, so far as we knew. And on the day of my vows, this longing was acute, filling and stretching me much more than the physical hunger compressed and tightened my small body.

    As I prayed, I asked no questions, made no requests, but only felt the deepest gratitude and vulnerability before the world. And from somewhere both within and beyond me, I felt the certainty that those feelings were directed towards something that would never ignore, scorn, or abuse them. Such feelings have filled many of my days before and since, but I remember vividly that it was on that day I first became fully aware of them.

    Finally, a couple hours before sunset, my parents came and we climbed into the big SUV Dad used for longer, special trips, when fuel conservation was not an issue. As we drove away, people lined the streets and waved, sending us off. The guards at the gate ushered us through the two bay doors, and then we were on our way into the countryside. Dad and Roger were up front. Mom sat in the back with me, and she'd squeezed my hand when we first got in, but then she'd retreated slightly to the other side of the vehicle, and we were all quiet for the trip. As Mom had said on our bicycle trip, we covered a lot of land quickly with the truck, reaching the very edge of our domain in far less time than Mom and I had taken for a much shorter trip on our bikes. We arrived at a grove of trees on one side of the road, with two other vehicles parked under them, and some people standing and sitting around. Dad pulled up beside them and turned off the truck.

    We got out as Milton, in his "dress" white robe, strode up to us. It was always amazing to me, how much energy he still had at his age, and living the life he did, out among the dead most of the time, living off the land. The other people there included two sets of the guards that patrolled the outer fence; this far out, and expecting to stay after dark, extra precautions were always in force. There were also two families with children who would be up to take their vows next year; Max and his parents were one of these families.

    Milton smiled at me and laid his hand on my left shoulder. "Welcome, Zoey. Please be at ease as much as you can." He turned to the other families to include them also. "That goes for you other children as well. Nothing here is meant to frighten or upset you. It is only meant to teach you of the world we live in, and our responsibilities in it, and to do so in a reverential way-for of all feelings, reverence is the one most appropriate and necessary in our world. And now, everyone, please follow me."

    We all followed him into the woods a little ways, my mom and I at the front of the group behind Milton. My dad had taken his MP5 submachine gun out of the back of our truck; it was a small, nasty, indiscriminate weapon that I'd never trained with, but like every weapon, I knew its use and capabilities-in this case, throwing lots of slugs around in a short amount of time at close quarters. Dad slung it over his shoulder. The other men were similarly armed with submachine guns or assault rifles, the kinds of weapons one wanted when near so many of the dead bunched up in a group.

    The steps of the ceremony had been explained to me, and last year I had attended one as preparation. I felt a freezing stab to my heart when the moaning began off to our right, though I didn't miss a stride or flinch. Neither did my mom, so far as I could tell, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

    As we walked on, the moaning did not crescendo, but stayed steady; it was a rather subdued and calm sound. Slowly the chill released my heart and I could begin to feel what Milton had described-reverence, not fear. Stepping slowly and deliberately, I could tell clearly that if anything demanded reverence for its power and ubiquity, it was death, which was calling to us that warm summer night-constantly and incessantly, with neither malice nor love, but only with complete and patient inevitability.

    We stopped in a small clearing in which there was a large, flat rock, about the size of a small, low table. Some of the other men handed out and lit torches. Dusk was rising around us. With every passing minute, the trees closed in nearer and nearer to the clearing we were in. I sat down on the rock, with my mom standing behind me, facing in the direction of the moaning. At first, I could almost think I saw shapes moving in that direction, but in just a few moments, no matter how hard I strained to see, there was only darkness there among the trees.

    Milton now stood before me and addressed us briefly before the actual rites began. "At one time, when I was much younger, in a different world, when people thought of rituals or religion, they most often thought of something called faith or piety. I'm not sure I can tell you so much about those virtues in our world today, for we who have seen so much have little inkling or desire for things that are unseen, and we have little to put our trust in, little to believe is steadfast and reliable."

    He looked right at me, and I felt as if he could see the things I'd been thinking during the day when I was alone. "Zoey, if any among us have faith, it might be you, I think, as I look at you now. But if you do have this mysterious, precious quality, then all the rest of us can do is look upon you with awe and rejoice for your wonderful and unknowable gift." He returned to looking at the others, but the memory of his gaze and the strength it gave me lingered. "But I can say that tonight we celebrate two other virtues that I know all of us can share with Zoey-hope and love. To me, she has always embodied these, as a sign of hope and love's triumph over despair and wickedness. So Zoey and Sarah, if you are ready, we will begin."

    Milton handed my mom a pair of hair clippers-old manual ones, not electric, so they would still work. As he handed these over, he spoke the first words of the ceremony proper: "Hope for the future often requires a sacrifice in the present."

    I felt the cold metal touch my scalp as my mom intoned, "And love for others always requires a sacrifice of oneself." I felt the slight motions as she started to shave my head. I stared straight ahead, all my muscles tense, too tense. This, too, I knew from my reading, was a pretty standard part of initiation rites, marking the inductee as physically different from the rest of the group, with strange markings or clothing. It also tended to erase gender distinctions and put the inductee in a threshold state outside of normal social conventions.

    Again, the experience was quite a bit more vivid and consuming than the theory. With each motion of the clippers and each tickling tumble of my hair down my neck, I felt colder and more alone and vulnerable. And with the first pinch, followed by the moist warmth of blood on my head, there was considerable discomfort to the operation, which I countered by biting my lower lip and gripping my knees with my hands as hard as I could. I knew it was a tradition that the rite was considered especially auspicious if the shaving were done without a drop of blood being shed, or with a lot of blood. Therefore, after the first nick, the person clipping felt a strong temptation to make more "mistakes." I knew my mom would do anything to avoid hurting me, and I knew that both she and my dad were especially practical and non-superstitious people, but I also knew-and more importantly, I respected-that tradition drives much more of what we do than many of us would like to admit. So once I felt the first accidental cut, I expected-even craved-more. And I was not disappointed.

    With my head bloody and bare, I sat as Milton and my mom gathered up as much hair as they could from the rock and the surrounding ground. Again, from a purely objective, intellectual perspective, I was sure that drawing some blood was intended to help with the next part of the ceremony, but at the time, gripping my knees and trying not to shake or cry, the only thing I felt was the most intense hope that my hair and some of the blood on it would work and the rite would continue well.

    Milton, holding the pile of hair in a fold of his robe, walked off into the darkness in the direction of the moaning. The sound diminished slightly for a few moments, then it rose to a shriek and a howl. I relaxed my grip on my knees and nearly wept at the sound; it was the first positive accomplishment in the rite, meaning that my offering was acceptable.

    Though it was too dark to see, I knew Milton had gone to the fence behind which the dead of our community were kept, unable to hurt us or be hurt by us. The area had, appropriately, been a small cemetery with a high, wrought-iron fence around it. This fence had been reinforced with more bars, so the smaller among the dead couldn't squeeze through. On a night of first vows, Milton would cast the initiate's hair in with the dead. Their reaction to the touch and smell of something that had so recently been in contact with warm, living flesh was usually wild and enthusiastic, as it was that night. We had no way of knowing whether this was only their ravenous, physical hunger for our bodies, or some residual longing and remembrance of what it had been like to be near us and touch us in less animal and destructive ways; the latter seemed too sentimental for the horrible reality of undeath, the former too cold and objective to grasp. Whatever it was that drove them, it was a connection they craved, and we owed it to them.

    As Milton returned, the noise from the cemetery calmed back down to the persistent, welcoming moan. Now was the final part of the rite. My dad took my hand and we walked with Milton to the designated spot, just at the edge of the light and away from the other people.

    In a loud voice, Milton continued the words of the ceremony. "Zoey, you come before us tonight of your own choosing, and with the full permission of your parents?"

    "I do," I said, and my mom and dad agreed at the same time. My head was bowed slightly, and my dad was right at my side, his big hand on my right shoulder. I don't think it would've mattered much if I had looked up, it was so dark now in the woods, but the path had been laid and measured out so that as long as we took the steps at the right moments in the ceremony, we would be where we were supposed to be.

    "Good. Then lead her forward, Jack." We took two steps as Milton spoke the next part. "Zoey, you are at the beginning of adulthood. You must tell us what this means to you and how you will follow your new path."

    We stopped. It was hard to make my voice clear and loud, with my head bent down and being so nervous, but I took a deep breath and forced the words, as harsh as they sounded to me at the time. "Death is easy; life is hard. Childhood was easy, now life will be hard. I vow to put away childish things and always follow what is difficult, right, and just, as written in the laws of our community."

    "You speak of what is right, Zoey, but there are many laws. On which two are all the others based? Tell me the first and most important." Two more steps.

    "To protect the living."

    "To protect the living requires much training and dedication. Jack Lawson, is your daughter ready for such responsibility?" Another two steps and we stopped.

    I could hear in his voice Dad was nervous too, and he wasn't the sort, but Milton always made him a little uneasy, in a good sort of way-the uneasiness that comes from an intimacy full of difference and mystery. And in the dark woods that summer night there was plenty besides Milton to make anyone nervous in more physical, visceral ways. "She has trained long with staff and with gun, in all weather, at night and in the day. She is as ready as any of us to face life and serve her people."

    "And the second great law of our community, Zoey," Milton continued, "the one we affirm this night most of all?" Two more steps.

    The moaning right in front of me had not crescendoed, but I was so much closer that it was a palpable trembling throughout my head and body. Without tilting my head up, I rolled my eyes up as high as they would go, so I was looking in front of myself. The darkness was a blank curtain. I could hear the rustling of their clothes, and I began to smell them-no longer rotted, but simply musty, worn-out, like forgotten, useless things dissipating until only vapors remain. I over pronounced each word in a hoarse shout, casting it at the wall of dead sounds, "To honor the dead."

    Milton paused. "That is correct, Zoey, and if it is the second most important law, it is often the more difficult. Take your final steps, Zoey." Two steps and our feet were touching a line of stones set in the ground to mark off this point as precisely as possible.

    I could barely hear the snick as my dad flipped the safety on his MP5. "Anything goes the least bit funny, little girl, just get out of here while I take care of it," he whispered.

    "You vow to honor the dead, Zoey," Milton called out from behind us. "Then receive from them their benediction. Let them welcome and bless you in the only way they know how."

    I leaned forward and closed my eyes. With every inch I tilted forward and down, my dad's grip tightened on my shoulder more and more. He had explained beforehand how they always made sure the dead's fingernails were thoroughly trimmed; a few days previous he had been out here, yanking their arms between the bars of the fence and cutting the nails himself. But even so, as I felt the ghostly touches on my wounded head, all I wanted to do was throw myself back and scream. My empty stomach seemed to tighten even more and collapse downward to my pelvis, as though it too were fleeing the deathly fingers.

    As the touches became more palpable, however, I relaxed slightly and let them glide and dance across my skin. There were no claws or calluses or scabs, but only papery skin that slid across mine, sought a purchase, slipped, and slithered back. The fingers were urgent, restless, mechanical, but also soothing, loving, and, most of all, pitiable. And so I willed them to be for a few seconds, as I let them grope me. Whether it was with human love or a hellish hunger, I knew I owed it to them and could endure it for their sakes.

    "The dead accept and honor you, Zoey," Milton called out behind me. "Now return to the living." My dad pulled me back up, and we walked back toward the torches in the clearing.

    My mom hugged me tight, sobbing quietly and whispering apologies in my ear for the cuts she'd inflicted on me. Milton and the others congratulated me briefly, mostly silently, with hand-shaking or pats on the back.

    On the way back to the city, my mom and I huddled together in the backseat, just holding each other. She only spoke once on the ride, to whisper, "Your dad and I are so proud of you. And so are your birth mom and dad."

    As Mom could so often do, she'd intuited the right thing to say, for I had just had my only sad thought of the evening-of all the dead behind the fence, I knew my mom and dad were not among them; they were gone from my touch forever, and that made them both safer and better than "regular" dead, but also far less real. My mom was showing how she had not forgotten them, and neither had I.

    I sank into Mom's warm body and let myself nuzzle her. She caressed my head and neck. There was nothing to apologize for, or congratulate, or mourn over that evening, and I realized Milton was right-there was only a great deal to revere, and I knew how much I revered both my sets of parents. It was another feeling I've had many times before and since, but which first fully overtook and enveloped me that night.

    When the truck stopped in front of the museum, I stepped out to perform the final denouement of the ceremony. I had asked that Mr. Caine be my vows-father, the member of the community who welcomed me back after my vows. He had helped me mentally prepare in many ways for what I had just undergone, and especially for taking in the meaning of it. Mr. Caine took my hand and led me to an enormous pile of wood in the parking lot in front of the museum. The petroleum smell coming off the wood was pungent and bracing, but welcome in a way. Everyone from town had gathered, some holding torches. Mr. Caine beamed down at me with his kind and reassuring smile. As in class, I never liked to smile, and in front of so many people it would've been unthinkable, but it was dark enough, and his smile filled me with enough confidence that I risked raising the corners of my mouth to acknowledge his encouragement.

    He stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. "Citizens of our city," he called out. "Zoey left us with great joy a few hours ago, and she returns with even greater joy and promise. She has returned with all the rights and responsibilities of a woman. She will serve and love others with all the courage and patience and strength a human being can, in good times and in bad. And we will continue to protect and love her as we have since the day we were blessed to find her. She will help light our way to a better future, as she will now light this fire."

    He took a torch from someone nearby, then offered it to me. I instinctively reached for it with my right hand, as I had learned to shake hands and do most polite, social things like a right-handed person. Mr. Caine withdrew the torch and gently moved my right hand away. "With your left hand, Zoey," he said, softly enough that I was sure no one else could hear. "Don't pretend."

    As I took it with my left hand, he smiled again.

    "Being a part of a community should never be denying or hiding who you really are, Zoey, so don't start with that kind of a gesture." Then he turned from me and called out louder, "The light, Zoey, the light of this night is yours to give us."

    I touched the torch to the wood and it flared up quickly. A cheer went up from the congregation.

    Mr. Caine took the torch from me and handed it back into the crowd. Then he stooped a little to hug me. "Don't ever be embarrassed of who you are, Zoey," he whispered. "That should be one of your vows tonight."

    He let me go, and scores of other people came up to congratulate me, their hands reaching for me as eagerly as those of the dead. But if anything, the hands of the dead frightened me less than these more lively and unpredictable limbs, especially when I saw some children my age whose parents forced them to "make nice" with the Piano Girl on the night of her vows. Though as the greetings wore on and the calm and honesty induced in me by Milton and Mr. Caine took hold, I could fully embrace this night's truth: all my fears were ultimately unfounded. I would serve the living and the dead, and they would let-or even help-me be happy and be myself. And we would do this, sometimes in spite of ourselves, and sometimes because of who we were. But as I felt the heat from the huge bonfire, as I felt dizzy and flushed from hunger and all the extremes I had gone through, I knew all this would always, somehow, happen because of that ultimate object of gratitude and vulnerability that I had intuited earlier, sitting by myself. I had truly returned to the community a changed person; or, I had returned to a community that had changed, so far as I was concerned. Either way, there was an intense feeling of awe, wonder, and vitality that night.

    Finally they led me to food and drink laid out on tables under the stars. As I ate, people became more interested in eating and drinking, or in talking to others, or flirting, or dancing, and little by little I was left more alone at the periphery of the crowd, chewing and thinking. And as my stomach filled and hurt less, the cuts on my head tingled more-not with pain, but just with excitement and awareness. After the feast, we went home and I slept, more full and content and alive than ever before.