“What is it?” I ask.

“Open it.”

I gently unfasten the leather strap, afraid I will break the brittle material, and turn to the first page. The pages are yellowed with age, but not torn. On the inside of the cover is written “A girl’s first diary, by Anna Lucinda Smith.”

Roc leans in to see. “Anna—you said that’s your wife’s name, right?”

We look up and Ben’s eyes smile, but not his lips. “Just a coincidence,” he says. “But it’s one of the many reasons I like it.”

“So whose diary is this?” I say, implying I want to know more than the name written on the inside.

“Turn the page,” Ben says.

Obediently, I carefully separate the page and slide it over. It’s the first page of the diary and it’s dated—

“Year Zero!” Roc exclaims. “You mean—”

“Yes. It’s the diary of one of the survivors of Year Zero. A little girl, only twelve years old. Her mother gave her the diary so she could remember all the experiences she had, pass them down to her children. Later in the diary she tells all about her and her family. But I want you to start reading from page one.”

I’m interested now. I’ve never heard of there being any eyewitness accounts left over from Year Zero. Conveniently, many of the diaries and journalistic accounts were destroyed over the years, in anything from fires to cave-ins. All very convenient for a secretive government.

I start reading in my head, but Ben stops me right away. “Out loud,” he says. His eyes are closed and he’s waiting for me to begin. I read:

“They are calling it Year Zero. The start of a new life. But not for everyone. The Lottery was yesterday and I got picked. A one in a hundred chance, they said. The President of the United States himself congratulated me on being selected. Not in person, though, because all the government people are already underground. That’s where I will be soon. Safe and sound and away from the earth’s surface, where the meteor will crash.

“I got a video from him, and through the fuzzy picture Mr. President said I am one of the lucky ones, but I don’t feel very lucky. My mom didn’t get picked. Or my dad. Or my grandmother, Aunt Gina, Uncle Tony, or Uncle Jerry. They even left behind my older sister, Tina. Only one of my friends got picked. I guess she was lucky, like me.

“My mom was crying yesterday. I asked her if she was sad, but she said they were tears of joy, because I got picked. My dad didn’t cry, but he got really quiet. I’m only twelve but first thing tomorrow I’ll have no family.

“In a day I’ll be in the Caves, far under the earth, where it’s safe. The government people say I’ll be given a new family, even though I don’t want one. They say life will be better; that it’ll be a fresh start for humans, for Americans. I try not to think about things, but when I do, my palms get sweaty and I get really cold, like I’m sick. I don’t cry, because I don’t want to upset my mom again.

“They’re coming to take me away tomorrow.”

I finish the first entry and look up. “My father told me the Lottery was bad, but I didn’t realize they split families up,” I say.

Ben nods, his eyes still closed, and says, “Keep reading.”

I flip to the next entry and read:

“Tomorrow has come faster than I thought possible. The streets are full of shouting people. Some of them have sticks, some shake their fists, all wear angry faces. The armored truck is here and the crowd presses around them until the soldiers start shooting their guns in the air. When the bullets start flying the people quiet down and back away. The serious men who get out of the truck are wearing heavy armor and carrying big, black guns. I don’t want them to take me away, but I put on a brave face and hold all the tears inside of me.

“My mom’s hug is so tight I can’t breathe, but I don’t complain, I just hug back harder. ‘Everything will be okay, sweetheart,’ she says, but I know she’s lying.

“Finally my dad is crying, which scares me the most. He’s a man, big and strong and proud. I’ve never seen him cry, not even when Grandpop and Grandma died in the same year. I blink away the tears and stick my chin out. ‘I’ll be okay, Dad,’ I say. Now I’m the one lying. He nods and pulls me close and then pushes me toward the men.

“I don’t struggle, because I’ve already seen the men use the Tasers strapped to their belts on other people on my street. They always get you in the end.

“My eyes are wide as the men lead me through the crowd, but I stare straight ahead and pretend I’m all alone. Before the big soldiers help me into the truck, I look back at my house and notice things I’ve never noticed before. The bright yellow paint that always felt so cheerful after a long day at school looks brown and flakey. The white shutters on the windows are gray with smog. The bright red door is the mouth of a beast, and my stark-faced parents are its teeth, cold and uncaring. Why don’t they do something? Why don’t they save me?

“When I linger outside the truck, a strong hand shoves me forward and into the tinted interior—and Year Zero begins.”

There’s a blank page, which I pass quickly in an effort to get to the next entry. I’m gripped by the young girl’s words, speaking from beyond the grave. The history books don’t tell it like this. They’re all patriotism and new beginnings and marvels of engineering.

I read the next page:

“Just like me, the elevator shakes and trembles as it descends deep into the earth. We are packed into the metal box like the yucky sardines my dad likes to eat are packaged into their smelly cans. My stomach feels funny as we drop, like when my dad took me and my friends to ride the rollercoasters at the amusement park. The elevator is bright, lit by yellow fluorescent light that hurts my eyes. I close my eyelids, because there’s nothing to see anyway. I imagine I’m still with my family, playing in the backyard with my sister while my dad mows the lawn and my mom does yoga. My imagination tells lies.

“When we exit the elevator it is dark. We are in a cave full of gray rock walls and pointy stones popping from the floor and ceiling that I know from school are called stalactites and stalagmites. The cave is the biggest cave I’ve ever seen, even bigger than the ones in Laurel Caverns, where my family went spelunking on one of our family vacations. This cave is so big that I can’t even see the other side of it, which seems to disappear into the gloom at the far end of my vision. The roof is so high that I have to squint to see it, and I can only make it out then because of the dim overhead lights strung up on the ceiling.

“They give us hardhats with lights on them. Mine is too big, but they say it’s better to be too big than too small. They tell us we have to hurry, that the scientists are predicting the meteor will hit earth very soon.

I can’t hold back my tears any longer, but I wipe them away quickly with the back of my hand.

“We all line up with our helmets on and sit on the hard stone floor, which pinches my skin beneath my jeans. They tell me to put my head between my knees so I do. Silence. A child whimpers. Not me. Someone shushes him and he’s quiet again. Silence. A bead of sweat trickles from my helmet down my forehead and into my eyes. I blink it away, ignoring the stinging.

“The impact is so powerful I think the earth will be torn in two. I’m flung to the side and I land in a tangle of arms and legs. There are bodies all around me. People screaming. Kids crying. I cry. The lights flicker and go out. The earth is shaking, shaking, shaking to pieces. The sky is falling and my head hurts when I feel the stones crack against my helmet. Sharp pebbles sting my skin, but I keep my head down like they showed me.