by Sean Cahill
He woke to the sound of a diesel engine idling just outside the holding area. It belonged to a heavy transport truck with a steel hatch on the back. Frank watched men—they looked like soldiers—climb out of it with guns and dogs. A few of them opened the holding area, and one spoke through a bullhorn:
“You will all board the Collections truck. Move to the truck, one at a time.”
Frank made his way toward the exit with the other captured people, and approached one of the soldiers. He opened his mouth to explain the misunderstanding. This man would help him.
But instead the man smashed Frank’s face with the butt of his rifle, knocking him to the ground.
Frank stumbled to his feet, dazed.
The man pointed the rifle at him.
“Get on the truck,” he said.
Dogs barked and snapped as he passed through the gate, shuffling toward the vehicle. He climbed in with the others.
Maybe, thought Frank, wherever this ends up, there will be someone who understands I don’t belong. At some point there must be someone doing intake. Someone who can run my name through the system. They’ll figure it out and this will all be cleared up.
Frank thought about the apologies he would receive. Maybe he could even sue the state. This was an outrage, after all.
He wasn’t a bum. He didn’t deserve any of this.
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