At what I believed to be about 6:00 am, I heard Pietro stir. "Wandi, you up?" He whispered. He didn't really need to ask. Another twin thing. We've always woken up within 5 minutes of each other. "You know I am," I murmured, "When should we leave?" I could see Pietro's shadowy outline tense. "In a bit," he answered, "We don't want to get there too early." He pulled out his sketchbook and turned back towards the wall. I took out my notebook and followed suit.

I'd only seen inside Pietro's sketchbook once, about two years ago. He was out at the market. I usually would have gone with him, but I had sprained my ankle at a riot the day before. He almost always put his sketchbook in his drawer, but today he hadn't. We had made a deal that we would never look in each other drawers, the ones at the foot of our beds. But, he had left it on his bed. He was making me stay in bed, but he was gone now... I couldn't resist. The one room of our house that remained was quite small, so I could reach the spot where his sketchbook sat. I pulled through it. I realized that most of the art was of us. I never realized how good of an artist he was. But, I haven't looked in any of his sketchbooks since. I felt terrible about it, but I never told him.

His sketchbooks are his prized possession, and my notebooks are mine. We buy the notebooks and sketchbooks, as well as food, with the money we get for helping the revolution. It's not much, but we get by. I write poetry for about an hour. None of it's very good.

"Wandi, time to go," Pietro said. I jumped. "Wanda! You okay?" he asked. "Yeah, fine," I said, "Just off in Fantazie again." Fantazie is what Pietro and I call that world that we enter when we're daydreaming. I put my notebook into my drawer, and grab my wooden hairbrush. I run it through my hair a few times. I push myself up from the bed. "Let's go," I said. We have a policy of not eating breakfast. It saves money, and we didn't eat it very much when our parents were still around. I wish we had.

We both know where Dr. Strucker's office is. Everyone does. Dr. Strucker is a bit of a ghost story in our town. He's been heading up the revolution for as long as we've participated. But, he's rarely seen. Every so often, there's a paper in the center of town requesting people, as well as the criteria. The most recent paper requested siblings, between 12 and 18, weighing about 120 pounds. Pietro and I fit perfectly. When we arrive at the front door, we glance at each other. I raise my hand to knock, then lower it. Raise it again, lower it again. I raise it one more time, but Pietro knocks. After a few seconds, a tall man with dark hair opens the door. He has a monocle, but it seems to be attached to his face. He doesn't speak, just looks us over. Finally, he says "Ah, yes. You'll do nicely. Please, Wanda, Pietro, do come in."