Every child in Orra entered the Tournament at eighteen.

The winners received the best apprenticeships, houses and introductions.

Nobody forced parents to prepare their children.

They did it out of love.

At four, children learned music.

At six, competitive sport.

At eight, public speaking.

At ten, volunteer service.

At twelve, leadership.

At fourteen, parents hired Tournament advisers.

Children became extraordinary.

They also became very busy.

One girl named Mina loved drawing insects.

Her adviser examined her sketchbook.

“Can we turn this into an achievement?”

“I just like beetles.”

“Excellent. Perhaps an exhibition.”

“I don’t want an exhibition.”

“A research project?”

“No.”

“A youth environmental initiative?”

Mina closed the book.

“Can I just like beetles?”

Her adviser looked genuinely confused.

Everything in Orra eventually became evidence.

Friendship demonstrated collaboration.

Sport demonstrated discipline.

Music demonstrated commitment.

Helping elderly neighbours demonstrated citizenship.

Even kindness became more valuable when documented.

At seventeen, Mina was exhausted.

Her portfolio was enormous.

The night before the Tournament, she removed everything.

Certificates.

Awards.

Letters.

Photographs.

She entered carrying an empty folder.

The judges were horrified.

“What have you achieved?”

“Many things.”

“Where is the evidence?”

“I left it home.”

“Why?”

Mina looked around the enormous hall.

Thousands of young people clutched portfolios against their chests.

“Because I wanted to know whether there was anything left of me when I stopped proving I deserved to be here.”

Mina did not win.

Years later, she became an illustrator of scientific books.

Her drawings of insects became famous.

Journalists repeatedly asked why she had not entered them in the Tournament.

Mina always answered:

“Because the beetles were the only thing I loved before somebody taught me to turn love into evidence.”