THE LIGHT THIEF

I can see the color of how you will die. Not if. When. Tomorrow. Red in your chest means you die tomorrow. Green means you fall in love. Black means you kill someone. And white? White shouldn't exist. My name is Jinx Hollow. I'm 17. I steal lights for a living. In my town, Elowen Hollow, everyone has a light inside their chest. You can't see it. I can. Since I was ten. The elders pay me to steal the black ones before they happen. It's not legal. It's not moral. It pays 500 dollars a jar. Tonight's job was easy. Mayor's house. Second floor. His son, 19, sleeping. I climbed through the window. The boy — tall, dark hair, scar on his left eyebrow — was asleep on his back. His chest was glowing through his shirt. Bright. I put my hand over his heart. My hand went through. Like reaching into warm water. I pulled. The light came out. It wasn't black. The elders said it would be black. They said he would kill his father tomorrow. This light was white. Pure white. And pulsing. And inside the white light, there was a name. Written in light. Jinx Hollow. My name. My legs gave out. My own chest has been empty for seven years. Since the day I was ten and I woke up and my light was gone. The elders said I was broken. Special. Empty chests aren't supposed to feel anything. But for the first time in seven years, my empty chest hurt. Like something was trying to get back in. The boy woke up. He didn't scream. He looked down at his own chest — now empty, with a perfect handprint-shaped hole — then up at the white light in my hands. And he smiled. It wasn't a surprised smile. It was a waiting smile. Finally, he whispered. His voice was hoarse. It took you seven years to come steal me back. I dropped the light. I tried to run. He grabbed my wrist. His empty chest touched my empty chest. And both our chests — for one second — turned white.