Amendment: Chapter Two

An officer is quartered in Vera's home.

Chapter One Continued…
It's so pointblank I initially have no reaction, but once his words sink in, my heart stops beating. I can't breath or blink or speak. The news brings to mind a sorrowful memory- the day I came home from work to find my dog of 8 years missing. Mom tried to convince me that Pony had probably just went looking for food and would show up any minute, but I knew better because she never left the front yard except to greet me at the edge of the street. Some homeless person ate her; it happened often. I remember how my insides felt dissolved with hopelessness, that same emptiness engulfing me now. I look back and forth between a seemingly proud Brandon and a sincere Hunter and realize this could possibly be more of their dark humor, "Is this another joke?" It must be. Please say yes.
Hunter inhales through clenched teeth, "I'm afraid not." I swallow hard and massage my temples, suddenly attacked by a vicious migraine. Shit. "It wasn't made official until a few hours ago. I can't say how it happened because I don't know for sure. All I really know is this- the entire city is on lockdown. No one can come in, or go out. No importing, no exporting. They're going to do everything they can to ensure that rebellion doesn't make it into this town. Apparently outsiders smuggled weapons into the Capitol, people too far out there for the army to properly survey. They used firepower no one's seen since the War on Terror. Most of us think they've been stocking up this entire time, ten years; and right under our noses."
"Oh God," I rub my eyes, picturing typical citizens holding bulky assault rifles, overpowering soldiers with sheer numbers one block at a time. This will ruin things for everyone. If Aaron thought curfew was strict now, wait a couple more days, we might have just enough time to make it home from work.
Derrick curses, "The capitol?" He stares at his brother in disbelief, "That's only an hour away. Damn. I don't have to be a general to guess their next target."
Brandon snaps his fingers, an odd habit of his, "According to rumor, the city's taking in what troops are left over from the skirmish. I even heard someone say they're going to build a fence so they can start a border patrol."
"That's what we needed, more guns." Aaron shakes his head like a cornered bull, "And who do you think's going to end up building that fence?"
I put my hand out and hush them quietly, "Don't be so loud guys." Paranoid, I scan the diner and discover that only a couple older men are glancing curiously at us, but it's enough to make me wilt in distress. We could go to jail for gossiping like this.
The corners of Hunter's mouth turn down and he squints as if in pain, "I haven't told you the worst part."
I groan and resist the urge to cover my ears. I press my fingers against my eyes as if they will lessen the severity of his report,
"They're going to start drafting. I think we're getting ready to start the next civil war gentlemen."
I tear my face from my hands and look at Aaron. My only brother. Then, at Derrick, probably my best friend. The dearest people in the world to me. I might have just lost them both forever.
Chapter Two (In the process of being edited, majorly so)
He weaves through the crowd with the precision of a seamstress; I run on the balls of my feet, occasionally popping into the air to catch a glimpse of that blonde mop of his.
“We were supposed to stay together you dumb dumb!”  Calling him out on his stupidity once simply didn’t suffice. He doesn’t seem to hear my protests, or if he does, he fails to acknowledge them. Aaron delves farther into the mass of bodies, and eventually I lose sight of him completely. I don’t understand that boy. One moment he’s cussing soldiers, the next he’s racing to listen to one make a public speech like he’ll die if he misses it.
The straps of my backpack dig into the soft flesh of my shoulders, biting down hard on my bones. Oranges and other fruits bounce against my back with each jarring leap I take. I find myself apologizing multiple times, for stepping on toes, ramming into people and cutting in front of them. I don’t know why I bother with such manners, really no one cares, it happens so often. Most can hardly waste the time getting angry they’re so wrapped up in the latest gossip. Actually, that’s not the right word- news is more like it. At the table last night, when Aaron told our parents about the rebellion in the Capitol, they were oddly quiet. Dad was especially reserved, which surprised me because if anyone would have had something to say about the matter I thought that person would have been him. He simply demanded that we not talk about it, not even in the house. We didn’t ask why. We never questioned orders, not even under our own roof.
Hopping onto the sidewalk, I disentangle myself from the other shoppers. Twice a month fresh food and supplies are brought in from outlying communities, today happened to be when the first shipment came in. We create tools, export products that are made with machines. Our town is one of industry, not agriculture. Climbing atop a metal dumpster, I narrow my eyes and scan the area for Aaron. No sign of him. I huff in agitation and lower myself to the ground; I know he’s going to City Hall, but he doesn’t have to shake me. What was I going to do? Embarrass him? I trek through the crowded streets, breathing heavily as the weight on my back seems to gain five pounds every ten yards. I’m such a wimp sometimes.
I know I’m close to my destined location when I see that people are carrying around pamphlets boasting about supporting or joining the military. They always hand them out during a public address. I think most people accept them because the ones offering the advertisements are usually soldiers. It’s not like one can get arrested for declining the opportunity, but it’s better safe than sorry. I come to what I believe is the back of the audience and discover my brother is nowhere to be found; this irritates me, however, it is what I expected of him. My breathing sounds like an avalanche in my ears.
A man stands to my right, a woman to my left. We bunch together as the crowd grows, eventually so close that I have to hunch my shoulders to avoid making physical contact with either of them. What I know can only have been minutes seem to stretch into hours. My feet begin to hurt and it feels like my brain is being squeezed under the pressure of such a large mass of people. If soldiers start shooting I’m going to get trampled. In the privacy of my head, I begin to build an extensive, pitiless speech to give to Aaron when I find him.
Just when I’m about to turn around and push my way out of the horde, a kind of short man in a brown suit takes his place before the podium, tapping the microphone twice.
“Can everyone hear me all right? You folks back there?” Is that a hint of allergies I sense in his voice?
A few of us nod and provide a weak ‘Yep’ in answer. I remain silent and still.
“Good, good.” He leans forward, the feedback splintering in my ears, “A few of you may not recognize me. My name is Harold Don; I’m your new civilian correspondent. Any questions you have can be brought to my office downtown on Lewis. Although, we’re pretty swamped right now so, don’t wait up for answers.” The speech reverberates off the buildings, creating an echo that can probably be heard in the market. “Many of you may have heard the news already; the state capitol has been invaded, and seized by rebels. I’m here to tell you what’s going to happen from this point on. There will be a new curfew, 8 O’ clock for individuals under the age of sixteen, and 10:00 for those eighteen and over.” My body slumps at this new reformation, “As always, you are to carry your Hyper Pass with you at all times if working night shifts. I remind you to have them renewed every six months, be keeping track. On a more important note, be watching for signs of illegal activity. If you hear or know of someone taking part in gangs or other organizations intent on disturbing the peace, you are to inform officials immediately. The withholding of this information will lead to swift justice. There are rumors surfacing that the army will start drafting- these are false.” A shared sigh of relief splits the air, people murmur prayers of thanks. “We won’t take to such drastic measures unless the situation calls for it; as of this moment, it does not.” My eyes sting as the wind blows into them, abducting the moisture; a scent of perfume rides on the breeze. “However, the rumors pertaining to the construction of a border fence are true. We will begin selecting citizens with knowledge and experience in this general field within the next week. Anyone wishing to volunteer is more than welcome; there are applications in City Hall. Everyone partaking in this project will be compensated. We are not a slave nation, and we’re never going to be.” He glances down at a paper in his hand, “There will be a dramatic increase of inspections. Follow the rules, and you’ll pass; it’s that simple. No contraband, no hoarding of any kind is permissible by the state. Now, onto something very important, all resources are to be conserved. If you are caught watering greenery or washing items and animals with a hose, you will be punished accordingly. Water is to be especially treasured. Also, all electricity is to be shut off at 11:00. Do not, I repeat- do not leave your lights, or other devices powered by energy provided by PSO, on and waste power. That is all from me. May I introduce to the stage, Colonel Taylor.”
The audience offers a halfhearted applause. I’ve heard enough. I spin on my heel and shove my way through the throng of spectators. Taylor’s persuasive speech about joining the city patrol and giving back to the community stirs my stomach in a most sickening way.
Screw it- Aaron could get in trouble if he wanted to. I was done being his keeper, done being drug around on the proverbial leash by that Saint Bernard of a human being.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I flip it open and hold it to my ear, “Hello?”
“Vera, it’s Mars. You need to be at my office within the hour. I don’t care where you are, or what you’re doing, make it a point to be on time. You’ve been called up by the government.”
Forty five minutes later, I find myself wringing my hands, watching Mr. Hill, and searching for a hint. I had never been in his office; standing here, before his cheap, messy desk- I fear for my life. My work ethics were not sloppy or inconsistent; in fact, I took pride in my practice! I maintained a quite admirable schedule. He instructed me to keep silent, that we were to wait for a guest before we begin our discussion. He rearranges his pens and papers, combs back his thinning brown hair. He is a good man- he wouldn’t do anything to cause harm to me.
I jump when the door slams shut against its frame, I hadn’t heard it open.
“Alright, I haven’t got much time, let’s get this over with.”
I turn to see a man. He is about six feet tall, and lean. An officer. No, not an officer- a government official.
My immediate reaction is to back up, “What is this?” My tone is accusing, I address my boss with wide, frightened eyes.
He waves me off, “You’re not being incarcerated! You’re being promoted.”
“Promoted?” I sound like a parrot. Mentally I chide myself.
“Indeed.” The officer stands off to the side, “After thorough review we’ve selected 50 welders to head our newest project. I presume you’ve heard about the construction of the fences?”
I nod, disbelief surging in my veins. It would be a massive undertaking, and something I thought that would prove utterly ineffective in the future.
“Congratulations. You will be heading project 22, it starts at exit 244, a mere five miles from your home. Construction begins in two days; we need you at the site at 5:30 a.m. You will be responsible for overseeing the construction of a miles worth of fencing and one guard tower. Any failure, or attempt to sabotage, and you will be arrested, and charged with a federal crime. I suggest you put your all into it.”
My mouth gapes open like a fish, “I-I, why me?”
He arches a brow, “I’m not here to pelt you with compliments. You will complete this assignment as instructed by your government.”
“I understand,” I gulp, and risk a glance at Hill, who’s frozen to his seat, “but what about my family? My wages-“
“Of course those will be taken care of; you will be compensated for your efforts, given that we deem them sufficient.”
My shoulders go lax, “Yes, sir.”
“Now, I have this same appointment to complete with nearly twenty more applicants. This is yours.” He takes a clump of papers from his bag, “I need your signature on the top page. It is a pledge.”
I skim it- the normal government regulated garbage. I sign quickly as he seems to become more agitated with me the longer I take.
“If I were you, I would watch myself carefully. Keep off thin ice, Vera.”
He leaves.
Did that just happen? My boss stares at me as if he’s asking himself the same question. “Did you suggest me, Mr. Hill?
He shakes his head, “I’m sorry, Vera, I did not. I think you’re an excellent worker, but I wouldn’t have thought to give you such an undertaking at your age.” He bites his lip, his brown eyes staring deep into empty space, “This is very unusual.”
“Mr. Hill,” I feel like crying, “I don’t want to do this.” I become more afraid as I listen to myself talk. “What if I mess up? Even the smallest mistake could land me in jail. How am I going to tell my family? God, why me?” I put my head in my hands, concerned for myself and the wellbeing of those closest to me.
“Stay calm, Vera. Nothing can be done about it now. Why don’t you go home and talk all this over with your family. I’m sure they would like to know.” He says nothing more. People don’t talk about the choices our leaders make- it’s considered probable cause.
My hands shake horribly at my sides, and I excuse myself hurriedly, making a quick stop at my locker to grab the pack of food I had bought earlier this morning. My life could very well be ruined.
The journey home takes me all of twenty minutes to complete- a record on my part. I should have done track in school.
Upon approaching my house, I become frozen in space. There is a truck parked in our drive. A dark city patrol emblem is painted on the driver side door. Bile rises in my throat.
How could life get worse? I run to our front door before the sky rips open and pours rain.
When I cut my finger, or jam my toe, I can feel my heartbeat at the point of injury. I feel the same sensation now, only all over my body. A throbbing beat screaming at me to run and hide. But what if there are soldiers in there arresting my mom or dad or brother? What if they’re being drug from a room, kicking and screaming? What if they’re dead?
I launch into my home, expecting danger. Whatever cruel fate awaits me- I search the rooms of which I have a direct view into to meet it. My blood races and my chest heaves up and down almost animatedly.
Then, I see him. I suddenly become immobile, cold and stiff as a cadaver. The officer is facing away from me, his hands behind his back, fingers woven together. His foreboding, dark uniform and proud posture contrasts aggressively with our colorfully decorated living room. My heart expands to the size of a watermelon, taking up all the room in my chest and threatening to bust through the cage of my skeleton; it is beating so loudly I’m sure that he will turn at the sound any moment and find me. Would he consider me troublesome for not revealing myself, for not notifying him of my presence straight away? I stand in the darkness of our foyer, and watch as the well-groomed intruder converses with my parents, his red mahogany hair glinting in the lamplight. What does he want?! Skin burning with fear; I retreat farther into the safety of the threshold and attempt to eavesdrop upon their discussion. I can make out single words and fragments of sentences, “happy to have you, stay, orders, busy”. The mutual tone seems docile enough; perhaps this unwelcome visit won’t end with our own demise.
Swallowing hard, I open the front door and close it hard, pretending I just entered. I place a hand on my abdomen; feel the rise and fall of it and the roiling inside, my physical body protesting further advancement. Don’t be such a coward. My boots make no sound against the soft material of the carpet. I stop behind the brown leather couch, creating a barrier between me and the stranger, which provides me an irrational sense of protection. Chin angled down, I clear my throat.
He looks at me over his shoulder. Coincidently, the air rushes out of my lungs and leaves me a dumbfounded mute; sweaty and near hyperventilation. Absurdly enough, I feel like the outsider; like the one who shouldn’t be here.
“Is that you, Vera?” Mama squints at me through the shadows.
I manage to find my voice, “Yes.” It comes out rough and low, I’d imagine similar to that of a hospital patient suffering a type of throat trauma.
She motions for me to move forward, “Come in. We’d like you to meet someone.”
I widen my eyes at her ludicrous statement, silently begging her to command that I go upstairs to my room so they may talk in private. And how could she call that a someone- as if he is human in any aspect of the word? Unmoving, I watch the officer from the corner of my eye, his profile outlined in the light escaping the kitchen, “Is Aaron home?”
“What? Aaron? No, I thought he was with you.”
I’m momentarily distracted by this information. I knew it. I knew he lied to me about coming back. Recovering quickly, I offer an assuring purse of the lips, “He’ll arrive soon then.”
“Where did he go?”
Dismissively, I shake my head. I lift a tremulous finger, indicating our visitor, “Who is this?”
Mama maneuvers around the furniture and grips me by the elbow, her unnecessary coarseness startling me. She pulls me into the archway of the kitchen, my spine turns to jelly; the officer is a mere five feet from me, his face fully visible now. Indeed, I’m hyperventilating. The man is quietly attractive, clean shaven with a straight bridged nose, neatly combed hair, and a firmly set mouth. His jaw is defined handsomely, his lightly tanned complexion complimenting his features. He is a full head taller than me, his shoulders nearly straight, his form lean and confident. However, his eyes are his most arresting natural attributes. They are a hard, gray-blue, and the instant they lock with my own it’s as if he’s invaded my soul. My body curls into itself; I want to strike him for making me feel so exposed, so open like one of Aaron’s books. All my desires, beliefs, and secrets utterly naked; my skin turned inside out under his scrutiny. When I glance at my mother, I can tell her resolve is as shaken as my own. However, my father is stoic, his composure even and solid; this comforts me in the most minimal way.
“This is Lieutenant Briar.” Mama squeezes my bicep, warning me to be courteous. She doesn’t have to.
My heart rate spikes painfully as he inclines his head in greeting, blood charging through my veins, “It’s a pleasure.” His voice is an octave or so too high to be called deep, but it still has a superior tone to it, commanding and stern. I open my mouth to speak, and then close it abruptly when I find myself unable to produce an intelligible sentence. Instead, I nod politely, brows drawn down in anxiety. I clasp my hands together and pick at my fingernails, studying my cuticles with feigned intensity.
Mama rubs my arm soothingly, “Yes, this is Vera, our oldest. Nearly nineteen.” I feel the fine hairs on my neck raise up, I don’t want him to know anything about me. She smiles at the Lieutenant dolefully, “She’s a hard worker, I couldn’t want for a better daughter.” 
He nods, forcing an almost imperceptible smile. I want to jerk away from her touch, to hide from his stare. Why is he even here? Is there a reason at all or did he just feel like having a chat with perfect strangers?
“Are you here because of Project 22?” The question slips from my tongue easily.
Dad regards me coolly, “What are you talking about?”
I tell my parents about the construction project- refusing to directly address the officer, as if he should be involved in personal matters. Mama’s mouth drops a little and the muscles in dad’s arms constrict. Neither of them can question the decision, neither of them can forbid it. Not when he is standing there.
The room then falls into an uncomfortable silence, mama shifts on her feet. “Would you like anything to drink, Lieutenant?” Her swift change in attitude and topic is almost comical.
He raises his hand in declination, “No thank you Mrs. Havoc.”
Leave. Go away.
“Well, in that case, I better start dinner.”
I watch her in disbelief. “Is he staying for supper?” I say this a little loudly, with obvious discontentment; my face heats and I pull my lips in between my teeth, biting down on them. Idiot. I grip the straps of my backpack tightly as a pressure release.
Mama smoothes her blouse with her hands, her eyes switching from me to my father. “Um….”
My dad takes a breath, crossing his arms over his chest, “He’s being quartered here, Vera.”
Every organ in my body free-falls into the pit of my stomach, this can’t be true. My pulse races as I realize the complications this will bring about. He can’t stay. He can’t stay for dinner and he certainly can’t stay longer than a night. This is the only place we don’t have to worry about what we say; we can complain and whine about whatever we want. We can joke about matters in the privacy of our home that would get us thrown in jail in a second outside. If he’s hanging around every minute of the day it would be like having a personal executioner counting the steps we take toward the chopping block. Dad narrows his eyes at me in warning; don’t react, just accept. Well I can’t, not this time. This isn’t real. My denial reaches such a point of irrationality that it skirts along the edge of hysteria.
I return my attention to the officer, half glaring at him in suspicion, wondering why he chose this residence. There must have been hundreds of families more qualified to house him. Perhaps his reasoning was deeper and more ominous than I could have imagined. Yes, it must be, there are no other plausible explanations. Does he suspect that one of us is a rebel? Please, don’t let it be that.
“My superiors make these decisions.”
The flush in my cheeks does not dissipate, only intensifies. Did they teach telepathy in Basic? He regards me with a keen eye, tearing me apart at the seams, beginning to apprehend and formulate my being.
Mama smiles, the kindness warped with fear, “Vera, let me have your backpack, I’ll put up the food.”
I surrender it to her and stand awkwardly; the sound of her searching through the pan cabinet borders on obnoxious in the otherwise deathly quiet room. The officer takes in the qualities of the house, surveying the walls, the ceilings, his gaze momentarily resting on me. Dad limps into the den, his process a pitiful one. He lowers himself into a chair and sweeps his arm out, “Have a seat if you’d like. I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of entertainment.” His voice lacks sincerity, and on the inside I’m smiling. Don’t need both legs to have an attitude.
The Lieutenant picks up a large canvas bag lying at his feet, his tone level and words clipped, “I would appreciate it if I could see the room I will be staying in.”
Dad nods, considering the officer with an imposing expression, “It’s upstairs.”
Upstairs? Not my room! Please let it be Aaron’s! I couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in my bed after him.
“Vera, take him to your brother’s room. Get some of his stuff out and move it into yours. Whatever you think he’ll want most.”
A sigh of relief escapes me; then I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’ll be alone with the stranger. Initially, I want to plead with my dad to ask mama to do it instead, but I know that is an illogical thing to do in the presence of our new guest. Protectively, I fold my arms across my chest and gesture for him to follow. His stride is longer than my own, and I feel I have to jog to keep ahead. As with any person trailing me up a flight of stairs, I feel stupidly self-conscious of my balance and figure. Worried that I’ll trip, I take the stairs one at a time but as quickly as possible, keeping a hand on the inside railing to steady me. He lags behind, maybe sensing my discomfort and doing so out of courtesy. The light is out in the hall; the sound of ruffled clothing providing the only evidence that he’s still back there.
I walk past pictures of Aaron and I as young children, oddly embarrassed by the one of me crying uncontrollably in a puddle of mud. How could my mom have been so cruel as to take a picture of that? I stop at my sibling’s door, feeling guilty for my pleasure that it is he who loses his room. Gently I push on the knob and step into his dwelling, flipping the light switch on. There are books stacked in piles on his desk and spilling out from under his bed in the middle of the room. Many lie open on the pillow, like he had pressed the pause button on life before going into town this morning. Books came to Aaron in abundant supplies; no one had use for such clutter.
Moving toward the bed, I gather the littered books into my arms like precious children. I know that to Aaron they are of that much importance. Lieutenant Briar stands in the frame of the doorway, his patience unnerving. My gut churns with the thought of him watching me; goose bumps ravage my body. He steps to the side as I sneak past him to take the items to my room across from Aaron’s, polite enough to avert his interest elsewhere. The proximity is almost too much to bear. I can smell a hint of soap.
I dump the biographies on my bed, searching my closet for a container to put them in. The situation is so surreal I feel mechanical; zombielike, not knowing whether to cheer in happiness that no one’s getting arrested or to bawl riotously given his vacancy might destroy everything. I carefully place the literary works in a battered cardboard box, trying to make myself comprehend this horrible predicament. I can’t. I can’t understand any of it… perhaps it’s because I don’t want to believe it.
When I return to Aaron’s room, I find the officer has set his things down on the end of the bed and is flipping through a thick novel. I’m struck by what a powerful, solid impression he has, even if he is just engrossed in a jacket copy, and equally appalled by him violating Aaron’s possessions with his touch.
“You’re brother’s taste in literature is unusual.” He looks up at me; a shiver descends my spine, “How old is he?”
I knit my hands together in front of me, picking one fingernail with the other; the intensity of his eyes crushing my spirit. “Fourteen.” I can’t get my voice to go above a whisper, talking to him makes my extremities shake with anxiety. Not to mention I feel like a backstabber for relinquishing any details about my young sibling when his presence is missing.
He nods thoughtfully, turning back to the book and skimming the content, his jawbone clenching on occasion. Uneasily and with beads of cold sweat dotting my forehead, I journey to the back of the room and study Aaron’s shelves for something that might be particularly dear to him; coming up with only a handful of nonfiction works and a notebook. That’s it. Sorry brother, but I’m not staying in here with an officer than any longer that is required of me. This room is suffocating.
As I attempt to make a hasty escape and avoid further conversation, the Lieutenant speaks, “Samuel Adams was a very notable political figure. Do you know much about him, Vera?”
Hearing my name come out of his mouth stops me dead in my tracks. How dare he assume the right to address me as if we were friends, or even allies. With my back to him, I inhale sharply and answer his question with a low, even voice, “I do not.”
“You should read this, then.” He is closer than before, his stealth frightening; I face him. His eyes are flashing, but besides that he is solely unrevealing. “I’m sure it’s informative.”
I look down at the book resting in his hands which abruptly appear very capable of extreme evil, and back up into his face. He stares down at me in a way that suggests… arrogance? Or just self-awareness? Either way, I’m frozen in his sights, “No thank you.” I clear my throat, feeling small in my little spasm of rebellion, “I don’t like biographies.”
Slowly, as if the extra weight might be too much, he sets the book on top of the ones in my arms, “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
I want to tell him that I won’t, but arguing has the potential to lengthen the undesirable confrontation. Tucking my chin down, I’m regarded with silent indifference by a chubby old man on the cover. He doesn’t know who I am, nor will he ever. Why should I concern myself with him?
I sense the officer watching me, but can’t bring myself to acknowledge the fact. I’ve never felt weaker than I do in this moment. I stare at the laces on his boots; they are a larger, brown version of my own.
Lieutenant Briar puts his hands behind his back, “I will leave and return to the house at different intervals. I never ran on an exact schedule before, and I won’t be on one now.”
My chest heaves, the preliminary dose of his company wearing off, creating a tiresome side effect. Is this submission settling into my bones? “Of course,” I murmur, more to myself.
I’m not sure why I keep standing there. Perhaps I am waiting for him to dismiss me.
Through my lashes, I see him look down at me, and then away as he contemplates something, “I shouldn’t be around often. The amount of time I’ll be quartered here is somewhat indeterminable. It could be anywhere from two to four weeks.”
I lift my face, observing him meticulously. Is this his way of assuring me that he will bring no trouble to my family?
“We’re happy to have you.” I say, the lie laced with spite.
Lieutenant Briar nods in conformation, knowing fully well I mean the opposite.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I turn from him and hurry into my room. I stand with my back against the door and put my head in my hands. I’m overreacting, being dramatic. Certainly we’ve done nothing to provoke the interest of the army. Not in this house. We are simple people; neighboring boring even. It just doesn’t make sense! Why chose here? Obviously we live close to the outskirts of the city, but that seems too trivial. There has to be better logic behind the order. Rubbing my face, I scan my drab bedroom; clothing articles are strewn about the floor, my bed is ruffled and unkempt and drawers have been left open to spew their innards. Sighing, I fling myself onto my mattress and tangle my limbs in the quilts, pulling a pillow down over my head. I pray. Then, somehow, I sleep.