Asylum
I can still remember my father’s face as he handed me over to the grim faced nurses on our doorstep. “What are you doing?” I asked, turning and fighting to break free as he shoved me into their arms. “Where are they taking me?” Two autocops stood on standby at the end of the gate, waiting to see if I’d run. I took one look at the line beside the house before remembering my wristhook was still in my bedroom. My father scowled at me. “I found the letters,” he said, reaching into his pocket and...