The doorframe sagged inward, wood torn like wet paper.

  Three men in mismatched Kevlar filled the opening. Rifles low but ready, barrels sweeping the room in practiced arcs. The kitchen light caught on their gear—duct-tape patches, mismatched plate carriers, one man missing a helmet but wearing the thousand-yard stare of someone who had already seen too many houses like this one.

  The table was set for three. Plates of cooling beans and cornbread. A single bulb swaying above. Mom half-rose, chair scraping back. Julia froze with a spoon halfway to her mouth. I set my fork down slowly, grease still under my nails from working on the tractor earlier.

  The lead man spoke first. Voice flat, used up.

  "You are being ordered to evacuate if you can."

  He paused. Looked at me. The reluctance was there, small but visible, in the way his eyes flicked away for half a second.

  "And we are to grab every able-bodied male possible."

  Mom moved before the words finished. She stepped between the table and the soldiers, arms out like she could shield both of us with her body.

  "He's sixteen," she said. Not a plea. A fact. "He's a child."

  The lead man did not raise his voice. Did not lower the rifle.

  "Ma'am. Eurasian scouts are eight miles out. They'll be here before dark. We need bodies on the line, or the line folds. You want your daughter to die in this kitchen?"

  Julia made a small sound. Air caught in her throat.

  I stood. Chair legs scraped. I looked at Mom. Saw the quick rise and fall of her chest. Four in. Six out. She had taught me that when the sirens started months ago.

  I looked at my sister. Her eyes wide, spoon still in her hand, dripping beans onto the tablecloth.

  One of the other soldiers shifted weight. Younger. Nervous. His finger stayed off the trigger but his grip was white-knuckled.

  The lead man spoke again. Softer this time. Not kind. Just tired.

  "Kid. Step outside. Now."

  Mom lunged forward. Not at the soldiers. At me. She grabbed my arm. Hard.

  "No. You don't take him."

  The younger soldier stepped in. Rifle stock across the doorway. Not striking. Just blocking.

  "Ma'am. Don't."

  The younger soldier moved first.

  He stepped past the table, rifle stock horizontal like a gate. Mom held on tighter, nails digging into my sleeve. Her body between us. Not yelling now. Breathing hard.

  The lead man sighed once. Low. Then he reached around her. Arm long enough to hook my other elbow. Pulled.

  I felt the tug. Mom's fingers slipped an inch. Then another. She twisted, tried to wedge herself between the soldier and me. "Stop," she said. Not loud. Sharp. Like a nurse giving an order in a room full of blood.

  The younger one pushed forward. Shoulder into her side. Not a punch. Just weight. She stumbled half a step. The table rocked. Beans spilled across the cloth. Spoon clattered.

  Julia screamed then. High. Thin. The sound cut through everything.

  My feet dragged. I didn't fight. Not yet. My arms went slack because fighting meant hurting her more. Then instinct kicked. I twisted. Hard. The lead man's grip tightened. Pain flared in my elbow.

  Mom lunged again. Both hands now. One on my shirt. One on the soldier's arm. "He's my son," she said. Voice breaking. "You can't."

  The lead man did not answer. He pivoted. Used his hip to shove her back. She hit the table edge. Breath knocked out. Julia grabbed Mom's leg. Crying. Pulling.

  I felt the room tilt. The bulb swung. Shadows jumped across the walls. I saw my sister's face, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent sob. Saw Mom's hand reach again. Fingers brushing mine.

  Then the younger soldier stepped in front. Blocked her. Rifle barrel up. Not aimed. Just there.

  I was through the doorway. Boots on the porch boards. Cold air slapped my face. Mom's voice followed.

  "Eli!"

  I turned. Saw her push past the younger soldier. Saw her stumble onto the porch. Saw Julia still clinging to her skirt.

  The lead man dragged me down the steps. Gravel crunched. My heels caught. I stumbled. The grip on my arm didn't loosen.

  Mom ran after. Barefoot. "Give him back."

  The younger soldier turned. "Ma'am. Stop."

  She didn't. She reached for my shirt. Fingers hooked the fabric.

  The lead man spun. Shoved her. Open palm to the chest. Not meant to hurt. Just to separate. She fell back. Sat hard on the porch step. Breath gone.

  Julia wailed louder. Dropped to her knees beside Mom. Small hands clutching.

  I saw it all in fragments. Mom's face. Pale. Mouth open. Trying to breathe. My sister's tears. The porch light flickering.

  I stopped pulling. Stopped moving. The soldier yanked. My feet slid.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Mom tried to stand. "Eli—"

  She came up off the step like something broken had snapped back into place. Bare feet slapped wood. She lunged again. Both hands clawing for my shirt. "No. Give him back."

  The younger soldier turned fast. Rifle barrel swung wide. Not aimed at her. Just in the way. She hit the stock with her shoulder. Rebounded. Stumbled. Didn't stop.

  I felt the pull on my arm turn vicious. The lead man's fingers dug in. Bone grinding. I tried to plant my feet. Gravel rolled under my heels. My knees buckled. I was half-running, half-stumbling. The grip didn't let go.

  Julia ran after Mom. Small legs pumping. "Mom! Eli!"

  Mom reached once more. Fingers brushed my sleeve. Missed. She screamed then. Raw. Not a word. Just sound. The kind that comes when something inside tears open.

  My throat closed. Air wouldn't come. I twisted again. Harder. The lead man's boot caught my ankle. I went down. Knee hit gravel. Pain flared white. The soldier hauled me up by the armpit. Fabric tore.

  My mouth opened. No sound at first. Then it came. Small. Broken.

  "Mom—"

  Mom charged. Barefoot on sharp stone. Blood already on her heel from the porch splinter. She grabbed the younger soldier's plate carrier. Pulled. "Let him go!"

  The younger one shoved. Open palm to her shoulder. She spun. Fell sideways. Hit the ground. Breath whooshed out. Julia dropped beside her. Small hands on Mom's arm. Crying.

  My chest burned. I couldn't breathe. Four in. Six out. Gone. Just gasps. My eyes locked on them. Mom on the ground. Julia curled against her. The porch light flickering over their faces.

  The lead man dragged me backward. My heels scraped. I kicked once. Weak. The soldier's grip tightened. Pain shot up my arm.

  My voice cracked. "Mom…help me!"

  She looked up. Eyes wide. Mouth moving. No sound. Just the shape of my name.

  The truck was there. Canvas open. Hands reached down from inside. Grabbed my shoulders. Pulled.

  My feet left the ground. I was up. In. The canvas flaps dropped. Darkness swallowed the porch.

  I heard her scream one last time. Faint. Fading.

  "Eli!"

  The engine roared. Tires spun. The truck lurched forward.

  I slammed against the bench. No one spoke. Just the rumble. The road. The dark rushing past.

  The truck bed was a cage of canvas and bodies. No room to stand. No room to breathe.

  I sat wedged between a man whose beard was mostly gray and another whose face carried the hard lines of someone who'd worked fields or factories longer than I'd been alive. The older ones filled the benches—fifty, sixty, some pushing seventy—faces carved from the same hard years that had kept them off the first sweeps. They sat silent, shoulders hunched, hands loose in laps or clenched on knees. The younger ones, me and a handful like me, were the last scrape of the barrel. The ones left when every other able body had already been taken.

  My teeth chattered. Not from cold. My hands shook so bad I pressed them between my thighs to hide it. Flashes kept coming. Mom's fingers slipping. Julia's scream cutting off. The shove that sent Mom to the porch boards. The way her mouth opened and no sound came. I tried to pull air in. Tried to count. Four. Nothing. Six. Nothing. My throat was a fist. Chest a vise. Tears burned the corners of my eyes but would not fall. I wouldn't let them. Boys don't cry.

  The boy across from me rocked forward. Rocked back. Whispered, barely audible over the engine.

  "Where are they taking us?"

  No one answered.

  A man in his fifties with thick arms, a faded tattoo on one forearm, spat over the side. "East."

  The boy swallowed. "And then?"

  The older man looked at him. Not unkind. Just empty.

  "Then they give you something to hold. Or they don't. Either way, you stand there till something shoots you."

  The boy rocked faster. "I don't wanna die."

  The man gave a short laugh. Dry. "Nobody does."

  Another boy, a year or two older than me, with acne scars on his cheeks, tried to laugh too. Tried to sound tough. "We'll be heroes. That's what they said. Heroes."

  The laugh cracked halfway. Turned into a cough. He looked down at his hands. They shook worse than mine.

  I stayed quiet. I listened. Heard the way the skinny boy's voice pitched higher on every word. Heard the older man's flatness, the way he spoke as if he'd already buried whatever he used to feel. Heard the acne-scarred boy's bravado splinter like dry wood. The lies they told themselves. The fear they tried to bury under words. The truck smelled like piss and fear and the faint copper of blood from someone's cut knuckle.

  No one asked me anything. I was small. Shaking. Silent. The same as them.

  The truck hit a rut. Everyone jolted. A canteen rolled across the floor. No one picked it up.

  I stared at the tear in the canvas. A strip of night rushed past. Smoke on the horizon. Orange glow. Something burning. Always something burning.

  The truck brakes hard. Tires lock. Gravel screams. Bodies slam forward. My head snaps against the canvas wall. Pain blooms behind my eyes. The engine idles roughly. Then, shouting outside. Sharp. Overlapping. Voices raw from smoke and fear.

  "Stop! Stop the fucking truck!"

  Boots on the road. A rifle butt bangs the side panel. Metal rings.

  "Open it! Open the goddamn back!"

  The flaps rip apart. Night air rushes in cold and bitter. A soldier stands there, younger, face streaked black, eyes wide and wild. He's dragging a body. Dead weight. Legs trailing. The man he's pulling is limp. Shirt soaked dark from chest to belt. Blood trails in the dust.

  "Move! Make room!"

  No one moves fast enough. The soldier shoves the body forward.

  The body hit with a wet thud that jarred the whole truck. It landed face-up, arms splayed, legs crooked. The hole in its chest gaped fist-sized, entry torn ragged, blackened skin curled back from heat. The exit wound was worse: back blown open in a starburst, ribs splintered outward, lung tissue hanging in pink wet shreds. Blood pooled under it fast, thick, spreading dark across the boards, seeping into wood grain. The smell slammed in with the night air—hot copper, sour gut rot, urine and feces from bowels letting go. A single twitch. Then still. Skin graying under the dim light.

  The soldier climbed in. Dropped to his knees. Hands shaking. Pressed the wound. His fingers slipped in red. "Come on, Mike. Come on. Don't do this. Don't fucking do this."

  Mike didn't move.

  The soldier kept talking. Fast. Broken. "We were holding a bridge. They came across the river. Mortars. Fucking mortars. He took shrapnel. Said he was fine. Said it was nothing. Then he just dropped. Just dropped like a sack."

  No one answered.

  The older man with the tattoo leaned forward. Looked at the wound. Shook his head once. "He's gone."

  "Fuck you he's gone!" the soldier snapped. "He's breathing. He's breathing. See?"

  I didn't see. No one saw.

  "Help him!" His voice cracked. "He's my fucking friend! He's bleeding out!"

  The skinny boy across from me made a small sound. A whimper he tried to swallow. The acne-scarred one turned his head. Vomited. Thin string of bile hit the floorboards.

  My stomach rolled. I tasted bile. My hands still shook. I pressed them harder between my thighs. Nails dug in. The pain was distant. The whole truck felt distant.

  The soldier kept pressing. Blood welled between his fingers. He looked up at the faces around us. Wild. Pleading.

  "Somebody help. Please. Somebody fucking help."

  No one moved.

  The driver yelled from the cab. "We can't stop! Scouts are closing! Move out!"

  The soldier didn't hear. Or didn't care. He rocked forward. Forehead against his friend's chest. Shoulders shaking. No sound. Just the wet rasp of the dying man's last breath. Then silence.

  The flaps dropped. Darkness again.

  The truck lurched forward. Tires spun. Gravel flew.

  Inside, no one spoke.

  The body lay in the middle. Cooling. The soldier stayed on his knees. Hands red. Head bowed.