The sixteen-year-old boy's fingers drummed against his thigh, counting the seconds until the broadcast started. His lottery ticket—a faded slip of blue paper—was pressed between his palms like a prayer. Around him, the living room hummed with the usual Friday evening chaos: his youngest sister stacking blocks into precarious towers, the ten-year-old arguing with the fourteen-year-old over whose turn it was to pick the movie, his mother microwaving popcorn. Normal. Routine.

"Turn it up," his father said, not looking away from the screen as the lottery jingle played. The boy reached for the remote. Static flickered across the screen before settling into the crisp image of the state auditor, her gray suit immaculate, her smile practiced.

"Good evening, citizens. Tonight's drawing will commence in sixty seconds. Please have your identification and lottery slips ready for verification."

The popcorn bag hissed in the microwave. The boy exhaled, slow. He’d checked his number seventeen times this week. 482-556-901. Not that it mattered. The odds were—

The auditor’s polished nails clicked against the glass bowl as she stirred the numbers. The boy’s youngest sister abandoned her blocks and crawled into his lap, her small fingers curling around his wrist. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the first number tumbled out.

"482," the auditor announced.

His mother’s hand froze halfway to her mouth, a single popcorn kernel suspended between her fingers. The microwave beeped, unanswered.

"556," the auditor continued.

The boy’s throat closed. His youngest sister’s breath warmed his collarbone as she pressed closer, her tiny heart hammering against his ribs. The auditor’s voice, smooth as polished steel, sliced through the silence: "901."

His father’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees. The popcorn kernel slipped from his mother’s fingers, bouncing off the coffee table with a sound like a gunshot. The ten-year-old let out a high, thin noise—not quite a whimper, not quite a word.

Then the auditor kept reading.

"207," their mother’s number.

"331," the auditor said—the six-year-old’s number, scribbled in crayon on her ticket, still sticky from where she’d pressed it against her juice box earlier. The fourteen-year-old made a sound like a laugh caught in a vise when "619" followed, her own digits. The boy’s fingers tightened around his sister as the auditor’s voice kept going, clinical and unhurried, peeling them apart one number at a time.

The microwave beeped again, insistent. No one moved. The ten-year-old had started rocking slightly, her knees drawn up to her chest. The mother reached for her, then stopped, her hand hovering midair like she wasn’t sure which child to touch first. The father exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before standing abruptly. He walked to the television, turned it off with a click that echoed louder than it should have.

For a full minute, the only sound was the four-year-old humming tunelessly into the boy’s shirt, her legs swinging where they dangled over his knees. Then the fourteen-year-old stood, her chair scraping back. "We should—" she started, then stopped, her voice cracking. The boy watched her throat work as she swallowed. "We should pack," she tried again, firmer this time.

The mother nodded mechanically, already moving toward the stairs. "Clothes," she said, "toothbrushes." The ten-year-old unfurled from her ball on the couch, her face blotchy. "Do we—" she whispered, then shook her head violently when the six-year-old perked up with a loud, "Are we going on a trip?"

The father cleared his throat, the sound rough like gravel dragged over pavement. "We'll go Monday," he said, and the way he said it—like it was already etched in stone, like arguing would only chip away at the time they had left—made the sixteen-year-old press his lips together until they ached. The six-year-old clapped her hands, oblivious. "Is Monday tomorrow?" she asked, bouncing on her toes.

"No," the fourteen-year-old said softly. She crouched down, eye-level with her sister, and smoothed the wild curls away from the little girl’s forehead. "Monday is after the weekend. Two more sleeps." The boy watched his sister’s fingers tremble where they tucked the hair behind the six-year-old’s ear, then steady again.

Their mother exhaled sharply, like she’d been holding her breath underwater. "We’ll need—" she started, then stopped. The microwave beeped a third time, the sound cutting through the room like a knife. The popcorn inside had long since stopped popping.

The ten-year-old wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Can I pick my own?" she asked, her voice small but clear. The father turned toward her, his brow furrowing.

The father hesitated, then nodded once. "Yes," he said, and the word landed like a stone in still water. The ten-year-old straightened slightly, her chin lifting. "Garrote," she said, with a certainty that made the sixteen-year-old's stomach twist. Their mother made a wounded noise low in her throat but didn't argue.

The six-year-old tugged at the fourteen-year-old's sleeve. "What's a g'rot?" she asked, mangling the word. The fourteen-year-old opened her mouth, then closed it again. Their mother stepped in smoothly, kneeling to brush a smudge of juice off the six-year-old's cheek. "It's like... a very tight hug around your neck," she murmured. The six-year-old considered this, then grinned. "I like hugs!"

The absurdity of it—the way their mother's hands shook as she tied the six-year-old's shoelaces, the fourteen-year-old humming a lullaby under her breath while packing spare underwear into backpacks—made the boy want to scream. Instead, he scooped up his youngest sister, her weight familiar against his hip, and carried her upstairs to help pick out her "trip clothes."

They spent Sunday at the park. The ten-year-old swung higher than anyone, her sneakers scraping the sky, while the six-year-old chased pigeons with gleeful shrieks. The father pushed the four-year-old on the baby swings, his hands steady on her back each time she arced toward him. The boy watched his mother from the bench, the way she memorized the shape of her children's laughter, her fingers curling around her wedding ring like it might anchor her.

The bus doors hissed open with a sound like escaping steam. The sixteen-year-old adjusted the strap of his backpack—too light, stuffed only with pajamas and toothbrushes—and stepped onto the curb. Behind him, his sisters clambered down one by one, the four-year-old clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear. The parking lot was nearly empty. Too early for the crowds, his father had insisted. Better this way.

A single blackbird watched them from the execution center's wrought-iron gate, head cocked. The boy stared back until it took flight, wings slicing the morning air like scissors. His mother smoothed the six-year-old's dress for the third time, her fingers lingering at the hem. "Remember," she murmured, "stand straight when you—" Her voice fractured. The father placed a hand on her shoulder, solid as stone.

Inside, the lobby smelled of antiseptic and lemon floor wax. A receptionist glanced up from her terminal, her smile bright as the fluorescent lights overhead. "Numbers?" she asked, fingers poised above the keyboard. The boy watched his father's throat move as he swallowed—once, twice—before reciting their digits in a voice that didn't waver. The printer whirred, spitting out seven laminated passes. PURGING AUTHORIZATION, each one read in crisp black letters. Valid for one day only.

"Method selection is down the hall to your left," the receptionist said, already turning to the next family shuffling through the doors. The fourteen-year-old took her pass with both hands, studying it like a treasure map. The boy caught the tremor in her fingers before she stuffed it in her pocket.

A clerk in a starched white coat greeted them at the registration desk. "Method preference?" she asked, tapping her stylus against a tablet. The boy watched his father’s jaw work before he answered. "Hanging. Short drop." The clerk nodded, tapping the screen. "Common choice," she remarked, her tone pleasant. "And the young ones?"

The four-year-old tugged at the boy’s sleeve. "I wanna go *fast*," she whispered, as if sharing a secret. He crouched down, his knees popping, and brushed her hair behind her ear. "You sure?" he asked, though he already knew. She nodded solemnly, her eyes wide and unafraid. "Gunshot," he heard himself say. The clerk’s stylus clicked.

The clerk’s stylus hovered over the tablet. "And the mother?" she asked. The boy watched his mother’s hands—still clutching the six-year-old’s shoulders—tighten briefly before she exhaled. "Beheading," she said, her voice steadier than expected. The six-year-old twisted in her grip. "Me too!" she announced, bouncing on her toes. "Like Mommy!" The clerk’s smile didn’t waver as she tapped the screen. "Axe or guillotine?"

"Axe," his mother said quietly. The boy saw the way her fingers twitched toward her own throat before she caught herself.

The ten-year-old stepped forward without prompting. "Garrote," she repeated, chin lifted. The fourteen-year-old swallowed audibly beside him before murmuring, "Hanging. Like Dad." The clerk’s stylus moved efficiently, the clicks rhythmic. When she turned to the boy, he realized he’d been holding his breath. "Short drop," he said, matching his father’s choice. His voice cracked on the second word.

A printer hummed behind the desk, spitting out seven slips of paper. The clerk handed them over with a rehearsed smile. "Proceed through the blue door for undressing. Lockers are provided." The four-year-old grabbed her slip with both hands, giggling when it fluttered in her grip. "Like tickets!" she whispered. The boy reached down to tuck it into her pocket before she could drop it.

The blue door swung inward with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a sterile room lined with metal lockers and benches. Fluorescent light bounced off the white tiles, too bright, making the boy blink. His youngest sister pressed against his leg, her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. "It's cold," she whispered. He crouched to button her cardigan, fingers fumbling over the tiny plastic buttons.

The mother moved first, methodically unzipping the six-year-old's dress. "Arms up," she murmured, and the girl obeyed, giggling when the fabric caught briefly over her head. The father worked in silence, unbuckling his belt with stiff fingers. The fourteen-year-old hesitated by the lockers, her cheeks flushed, before turning her back to the room and shrugging out of her sweater. Only the ten-year-old moved with purpose, toeing off her sneakers like she was preparing for gym class.

The boy focused on his own laces, the mundane act of untying them anchoring him. His youngest sister patted his shoulder. "You're slow," she announced, already naked except for her socks, which pooled around her ankles like deflated balloons. He smiled—couldn't help it—and peeled them off her feet one at a time, tickling her sole just to hear her squeal. The sound bounced off the tiles, too loud, too alive.

A buzzer sounded. The fourteen-year-old jumped, her bare shoulders tense. "Undressing complete," a mechanical voice announced. "Proceed to the waiting area." The mother reached for the six-year-old's hand, then stopped, her fingers hovering. The girl didn't notice, too busy twirling in front of a floor-length mirror, fascinated by the way her reflection moved with her. "Look, I'm a ballerina!"

The fourteen-year-old stared at her reflection—pale, naked, ribs visible with each shallow breath—then turned abruptly away. The boy watched his father step toward the next door, shoulders squared, but hesitate when the four-year-old grabbed his pinky finger. "Daddy," she whispered, "do I get a lollipop after?" The father's throat moved before he managed, "Yes. The biggest one."

The waiting area smelled like bleach and something faintly metallic. Plastic chairs lined the walls, some occupied by other families in various states of undress. A toddler wailed in the corner while its mother shushed it mechanically. The boy guided his sisters to a cluster of seats, the six-year-old immediately climbing onto the fourteen-year-old's lap to braid her hair. "Like Elsa!" she announced, fingers tangling in the blonde strands.

The ten-year-old sat rigid beside him, knees pressed together. "How long?" she asked, too quietly for the others to hear. The boy checked the wall clock—9:17—and shrugged. The second hand ticked louder than it should have. Across the room, an elderly man coughed wetly into his hand.

At 9:32, a speaker crackled. "Family 482-556-901," a voice called. The mother stood so fast her chair screeched. The six-year-old clapped, mistaking it for a game show announcement. "That's us!" The father reached for the four-year-old, but she darted ahead, still clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear.

The execution chamber door slid open with a hydraulic sigh. Inside, the air smelled of gun oil and fresh sawdust. The four-year-old skipped ahead, her bare feet whispering against the concrete floor. "Is this the playground?" she asked, pointing at the steel drain set into the floor. The sixteen-year-old bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

A technician in disposable coveralls knelt to adjust the tripod-mounted rifle. The boy watched his father's hands twitch—once—before settling on the four-year-old's shoulders. "Remember," he murmured, crouching to her level, "you get to go first. Like winning a race." She beamed, missing the way his fingers trembled against her collarbone.

The technician gestured to the yellow footprints painted on the floor. "Stand here, please." The four-year-old obeyed, still hugging her rabbit. "Can Mr. Flopsy watch?" The technician's mask crinkled at the corners. "Of course." He tucked the plush ears gently out of the way before positioning the rifle's muzzle three inches from the back of her skull.

The boy counted the freckles on his sister's shoulders—eleven—as the technician's finger hovered over the trigger. Then: a crack like a balloon popping, the rabbit dropping from limp fingers before her knees even hit the ground. The six-year-old gasped. "She fell down!"

Their mother made a sound like a dying animal, low and guttural, before clapping a hand over her mouth. The technician nudged the small body onto its side with his boot—professional, efficient.

The boy watched his mother kneel beside the four-year-old's body, her fingers brushing the shell of an ear still warm from life. "She didn't feel it," the mother whispered, more to herself than anyone. The six-year-old tugged at her sleeve. "Mommy, it's your turn!"

The beheading block was polished oak, darkened with old stains. His mother knelt without prompting, her spine straight, the tendons in her neck standing out like bridge cables. The executioner—a broad-shouldered man with a handlebar mustache—hefted the axe with practiced ease. The first swing caught her mid-cervical; the boy saw the moment her eyes registered the pain, mouth opening in a soundless scream before the second blow severed her head completely. It rolled toward the six-year-old, who giggled. "Mommy's playing soccer!"

The technician guided the six-year-old to the block next. She went willingly, still humming the tune from her mother's lullaby. One clean stroke—luck, the executioner muttered—and her small body crumpled forward, pigtails bouncing. Blood arced in a perfect parabola, splattering the ten-year-old's bare feet. She didn't flinch.

The ten-year-old stepped forward next, her gait stiff like a wind-up doll. The garrote’s leather strap hung limp from its frame, waiting. She climbed onto the stool without help, her toes curling over the edge for balance. The technician adjusted the strap around her throat—not too tight, not yet—and she tilted her chin up, exposing the fragile dip of her collarbone. "Count backwards from ten," the technician instructed, his fingers brushing her shoulder. "Ten," she began, clear and steady. "Nine." The wheel creaked as he turned it. "Eight." Her voice hitched. "Sev—" The strap cinched. Her fingers flew to her neck, scratching at the leather, her legs pistoning against the stool. The boy counted the seconds—until her thrashing slowed, her face purpling like a bruise. At four minutes, her bladder let go, a dark stream pattering on the concrete. At five, her hands dropped. The technician checked her pulse, then nodded to the father.

The father exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before stepping toward the gallows. The noose swayed slightly, its knot freshly oiled. He tested the trapdoor with his weight, once, then turned to face his children. The trapdoor clanged open. The boy counted the jerks of his father’s legs—before the telltale stiffening and sperm come out of his cock - and until later the legs and the cock sudden slackness and the father empty after seven minutes his bladder.

The sixteen-year-old’s turn came next. The noose chafed against his Adam’s apple as he adjusted it himself. His little sisters’ bodies were being wheeled away on gurneys—the four-year-old’s rabbit tucked under her arm by some merciful hand—but he fixed his eyes on the fourteen-year-old instead. "Sing," he croaked, and she understood immediately, her voice trembling through the first lines of their childhood lullaby. The trapdoor dropped. The song fractured as his body convulsed, his erection straining against nothing. The orgasm hit at six minutes, his hips stuttering mid-air, and he thought absurdly of his first wet dream—how he’d woken ashamed, how his mother had laughed and tousled his hair. Darkness swallowed the memory.

The fourteen-year-old was last. She climbed the gallows steps slowly, her bare feet leaving damp prints on the wood. The noose smelled of hemp and sweat. She inhaled deeply a last time and the trapdoor drooped. The rope snapped taut. Her legs bicycled wildly, her toes pointed like a dancer’s. At nine minutes, her thighs glistened, the scent of salt and iron sharp in the sterile air. After ten minutes she hang still and begin to empty her bladder.

The grinding mechanism roared to life with a sound like distant thunder, its steel teeth gleaming under the harsh industrial lights. The four-year-old's body vanished first—small enough that the technicians didn't even need to fold her in half before feeding her into the chute. Her stuffed rabbit tumbled in after, caught in the whirl of blades, emerging seconds later as tufts of pink fluff mixed with the minced meat. Someone would find it later, maybe pluck it out with tweezers before packaging. Or maybe not.

The father's corpse required more effort. Two attendants lifted him by the ankles, his limp cock still glistening from his final release, and maneuvered him into the grinder headfirst. The machine choked momentarily when his broad shoulders jammed against the feed, then powered through with a sickening crunch. His wedding ring sparked once against the blades before disappearing into the slurry. The mother's corpse and the sixteen-years-old corpses also come into the grinder.

At the next station, the six-year-old lay splayed on a stainless steel table, her pigtails now tied back with rubber bands to keep the hair out of the meat. The surgeon made the Y-incision with practiced precision, her scalpel parting the skin between clavicles like butter. The entrails came out in one slick pull—purplish ropes of intestine, the liver's dense wedge, the stomach surprisingly small once emptied of its last meal (half a peanut butter sandwich, the crusts neatly trimmed). These slid into a biohazard bin marked NON-EDIBLE in cheerful green letters.

Her limbs were segmented at the joints with a bone saw. The arms went into one tray, the legs another. The attending butcher paused at the pelvis, tilting his head. "We're getting requests for younger cuts," he remarked to his assistant, tapping the six-year-old's hipbone with his knife. "More tender." The assistant nodded, already labeling the vacuum-sealed packages.

In Bay 3, the ten-year-old and fourteen-year-old hung from meathooks by their Achilles tendons, swaying slightly in the refrigerated air. Their abdominal cavities gaped where the organs had been scooped out—a cleaner job than the six-year-old's. A quality control inspector ran his gloved finger along the fourteen-year-old's and the ten-years-old´s ribcages, nodding approval at the marbling. "Prime roasting stock," he noted, marking his clipboard. The assistant nodded, and both get vacuum packaged as a whole, so that they can be roasted in oven or at the spit after the selling.