My Brother Arrested Me At Thanksgiving Dinner

I’d survived interrogation rooms in places whose names don’t appear on civilian maps. I’d navigated corridors that existed only in classified briefings. My records weren’t “missing.” They were Level Black.

“James,” I said quietly. “You really don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, I really do.” He hauled me up by my arm. My chair screeched against the hardwood.continue reading …