A temporary silence overcame the courtyard, providing just enough space for the spring heat to settle among the crowd. Most of the town was present tonight, sheltered beneath the faint remnants of a frightened sun retreating into the western sky. As the enveloping darkness swept in from the east, the floodlights shined their beams, splintering the soft wood that made up the stage. The ceremony was now halfway through.

          The spectators, most of them parents, were first to notice the scent of Easter lilies occupying the courtyard's grassy underfoot. Almost as though in defiance of the mass gathering taking place, the lilies secreted a bittersweet aroma that filled the air with a provocative tension ironically fit for the night's happenings. As the conquering silence amplified the world around them, the crowd also began to notice a swarm of bees dancing about with a zealous appetite to possess. Searching for the ripest lilies to pollinate, their little wings orchestrated an amorous symphony altogether wasted on a crowd too anxious to admire.

          The headmaster, a brutish man of about forty whose robust figure overshadowed the podium, was going through the list of boys before him one final time to personally make sure no foul play was at hand. He had spent the year observing every single student and determining precisely where each would rank. The graduating girls, dressed in white gowns with sleeves that stopped short at the wrists, had all been called up without much deliberation. By tradition, their rankings were known to all well in advance. At the moment, the audience shifted uneasily in their seats, waiting for the boys' commencement to begin and knowing that only half of them would receive their graduating bands by the night's end.

          At the far end of the courtyard, opposite the stage behind which crowded the male graduands like sheep awaiting slaughter, the silence gave way to the sound of grass and gravel being crushed beneath a heavy foot. Then a light one. Then immediately another heavy one. Their maker steadily limped forward, followed and preceded by an entourage of shadows projected orthogonally onto the ground beneath him like a crosshair, which grew darker and shorter as its target neared the illuminated stage.

          While the unfamiliar figure drew closer, a few of the seated onlookers tilted their heads around with aroused curiosity. It wasn't long before the whole audience, as wary of each other as they were of outsiders, shifted their entire attention to this apparent intruder. A low chorus of murmurs ensued:

          "Who's that?"

          "I don't recognize him."

          The man continued his slow approach, his eyes fixated on the dewy grass beneath him.

          "If he's from this district then—"

          "Who is he? Is he wearing a wristband?"

          Unfazed, he made his way between the rows of seats that spilled to either side of him, paving a wide, barren aisle extending to the steps of the stage.

          "Can you tell what he’s carrying?"

          Tucked beneath his left arm was a bright foldable chair with a hollow back. He held onto it tightly, revealing a few pale fingers curled around the cold metal legs of the seat. Taking a dozen more steps, he then suddenly stopped, looked up, unfolded his chair, and planted it squarely into the soft dirt of the central aisle. Distancing himself from the rest of the crowd, he sat down.

          The audience now fully focused on this alien, trying to decipher his identity that remained cleverly concealed beneath an oversized coat and hat. Low murmurs soon crescendoed into disgruntled clamor, and, armed with a sense of entitlement and self-righteousness, a mob of parents launched the first volley of words—a preemptive strike.

          "Who are you? Why are you here?" yelled Mrs. Husmalt as she stood up, loosening her grip on the bearish paws of her husband.

          "Show us your wrist!" another demanded, waving his right forearm in the air and pointing to the metallic silver band wrapped tightly around his skin, shining like a bright crescent under the moonless sky.

          By now the headmaster had finished going through the list and his attention was caught by the ongoing commotion. His eyes met those of the besieged trespasser—locking briefly, but offering no respite. With no power over the parents, the headmaster could only watch vigilantly as the scene unfolded before him.

          Many of the nearest attendees, indignant at the prospect of having their ceremony interrupted by an outsider, began surrounding the seated man. The most daring ones formed a semi-circle around him, approaching just close enough to tell he couldn't have been any older than they were despite his ailing physique. It was Mr. Husmalt, pushed forward by his incensed wife, who first recognized the stranger.

          "I think I know him," he thought twice before announcing, "He's from this district, he—he was in my year."

          Sensing the inevitable question, Mr. Husmalt continued, "No, I don't remember him getting one."

          The oppressive silence, suspended, but not altogether expelled, returned unnoticed to accompany the uncertainty which now crept uncomfortably into everyone's mind.

          "What's he doing here then?"

          "Wasn't he told—"

          "Of course, he's been told."

          Mr. Husmalt shrugged reluctantly, sinking his chin down to his chest without letting his eyes become caught. He was an oval-shaped, overbearing man with equally overbearing perspiration that had the unfortunate power of announcing his presence well in advance of his own arrival. His shirt, already saturated with sweat, could do nothing to hold back the transpiring wave.

          Silence.

          "I'm here just like all of you," the man's sudden words resonated across the courtyard as he fumbled to his feet, removing his coat and hat in the process. His oversized clothing hid a frail body, visibly misshapen like a fragile vase repeatedly broken and hastily reassembled, each time losing more and more of itself by the careless sweep of a broom. His age shone only through two bulging eyes, which had remained unchanged since the night they glistened beneath the very same floodlights nearly twenty years ago. He hadn't witnessed another graduation ceremony after his—that was a privilege reserved to those who were banded, whose commencements now fit tightly around their wrists as a memory and a reminder.

          The implications of these few words ran heavy through the hearts of the crowd whose throats began to choke with fire and smoke. With a solemn voice he continued, "I'm here to witness my son's graduation—"

***

          The uproar was extinguished as swiftly as it had erupted. Mr. Husmalt returned to his seat alongside his wife, sweating even more profusely and replaying in his mind the scenes that had just unfolded. He looked across his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the now-empty chair, battered but still in place at the center of the aisle, and the bloodied hat which lay crumpled on the ground beside it. His hands, cold and damp with moisture, retreated bitterly from his wife's side.

          The headmaster returned to the podium, straightening his tie and fixing his jacket. He cleared his throat, then began:

          "Parents and guests, you have my sincerest apologies for that disheartening development. We are fully prepared to continue with the ceremony and have no intention of delaying it further."

          He paused to scan the crowd, finding their attention no longer fastened to the stage but instead floating irritably from each one of them to the next. The silence once again prevailed, and now not even the headmaster's words, booming through an impressive array of loudspeakers, could break it. He continued anyway:

          "For generations, our district has been in a constant state of refinement–of purification–anchored in the fine breeding, education, and selection of our youth. With each generation we become stronger and smarter. Ours is a torch passed on only to those who are best fit to carry it."

          Mr. Husmalt's eyes darted back and forth, searching for any signs of dissonance among the crowd—any reassuring notion of enraged husband or disgraced wife. The silver band chewed into his wrist like acid as his mind suppressed any unwelcome thoughts about his own son. A cloud of mutual suspicion and distrust loomed over the courtyard, fully blotting out any memory of sunlight.

          "Every name I will call up from among your sons tonight will join our young women in shaping our future. Like you, they will wear their silver bands proudly—never to take them off. Only the finest will achieve this highest of honors, forever setting them apart from the others."

          Another pause. The pervading darkness now entirely occupied the sky and slowly began veiling the courtyard as the orchestra of bees retired their ceaseless performance for the night. The world came to a stop; one final gasp of air before the gallows.

          "Tonight, we celebrate life and the commencement of our district's newest generation of young men and women, of future husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers, and the exceptional rights promised to them by their graduating bands: the right to marriage and the right to child-birth."

          The headmaster began reading the names off the list, and the silence rang louder than ever.