I avoid talking about what happened after the Riots as much as possible, even with my own brother.  I knew this question was coming, though.  It was inevitable that you'd ask me it after what I told you yesterday.

You will recall that your father made quite the speech the day after he burned the city to the ground.  He was determined to bring down The Dissent, the entity that was clearly the cause of all our sorrows.  Thankfully, he had a plan.

I will not have my children huddle in their homes in fear for their lives at the hands of these rabid murderers.

With those words, the Round-up began; the first people arrested were those who had been uninhibitedly critical of the Leader; next were those they associated with, whether they'd ever said a disloyal word or not.  Soon, word got out that you would be spared arrest if you fed Regime soldiers a name or two.

Remember, the Leader is doing this to keep those Loyal to him safe. Put your trust in your dear Father.  He works for the greater good—how bold!

I had just finished clearing the dishes one morning when there was a knock at our door. My mother opened it with a welcoming smile. Her happiness drained away as soon as she realized that the person standing on her doorstep was not the expected neighbor holding a precious cup of sugar but a soldier with a warrant and a gun.

It was five days after the riots and until then, we had considered ourselves lucky— our home had suffered little damage during the fires and the burn on my arm was the worst of our injuries. My family's good fortune was cause enough for my mother to insist we celebrate by splurging on the pricy ingredients necessary to bake a cake for my brother's birthday.

As the soldier pressed his way inside, we were informed that my father had already been arrested. If my mother came without a fight, the soldier told her, her children would be spared the re-education camp she and my father were bound for.  We would be sent to charity schools and would be provided for because the Leader takes care of his lambs.

The soldier counted our wide-eyed faces.  One, two, three little lambs.  But where was the fourth?  At thirteen, my oldest brother Graden was considered of age and was therefore culpable for the same fictitious crimes my parents were accused of. 

Graden had left the day before to get word to our cousins in the country that our family had survived the Riots largely unscathed.  My mother refused to give him up.

The soldier sighed in resignation as he gripped my mother's arm, tearing her away from her children.  Several more men filed in after they had gone and led us from our home and from each other. 

That was the last time I saw any of them.