I spent most of my time writing. The real money was in the news pieces, but I always preferred writing fictional short stories. In a rapidly changing, fast-paced world, the fantasy helped distract my mind from what was around me. Occasionally the newspaper would ask me to write the weekly news — usually to cover for the woman who normally wrote them unless she was ill. Eventually, they started asking me to do it full-time alongside her. As much as the idea bored me, I needed the money. It was short lived.

As the rebellion grew, more and more contributors quit their jobs. Most people were too afraid to write, even if it was just some silly news piece about a cat getting stuck in a tree. One single slip-up, one misplaced word, and you would disappear without a trace. I was the last one to leave. I figured, as long as I kept writing unrelated fictional pieces, I would be fine. But the newspaper didn't see it that way.

Without the main news, there was no source of income to keep the paper running. They begged and pleaded for me to take on the job, but even I wasn't that stupid. Maybe everything would have been fine. Maybe there would be no slip-ups or stories that would upset the authorities. Maybe if I had accepted, I could have saved a few others' careers. But I couldn't take that risk. Not with Max.

I hated having nothing to do. I always imagined that if I didn't have a job, I could sit around and paint or read all day. And that's exactly what I did, but you can only do one thing for so long until you grow sick and tired of it. Father kept offering to help. I told him I didn't want his charity, but he insisted it wasn't.

"Consider it allowance," he said, "to make up for the lack of when you were little."

I still refused. He continued to beg me to accept his money, and when I said no, he tried to find other crafty ways to deliver it to me, like "dropping" a couple of dollars when he visited or writing fake "You Won!" letters and placing them in my mailbox. It wasn't that I was too proud to accept money from my father. In fact, in any other situation, I would have gladly appreciated his generosity. But this situation was different. I wanted nothing to do with him.

It wasn't by choice. I loved my father with all of my heart, and he had done no wrong. He always had the best of intentions. He did whatever it took to keep his family safe, like joining the authorities. And that was exactly the problem. With the growing threat and panic of rebellion spreading across the country, I had to stay as far away from the source as possible. My father loved Max, and I knew he would never intentionally harm him, but if it came down to it, he wouldn't have a choice. His life was no longer his. He was no longer in control of his actions. If the authorities demanded it, it had to be done.

It was the same reason Max and I bought our own house.. Father continued to persuade me that he could protect us and that we would be completely safe living with him.

"No one will suspect that the head officer is harboring any sort of positive relations with a rebel," he said. "When shit hits the fan, you'll be covered."

But we wouldn't be safe. It wasn't him who I didn't trust; it was the people he worked for. So I tried to stay as far away from my father as possible. It was hard, but I was willing to do whatever I had to in order to keep Max safe. So when I lost my job, or quit rather, I felt completely helpless. I didn't want to put all the weight on Max. I didn't want to rely on him and put that pressure on his shoulders. If anything, it should have been on mine. But he never seemed bothered.

He continued to make his daily paper runs and deliveries, and while it didn't bring in much, it was still something. Every day that he walked out that door, I feared he would never come back. But he always did. Until, he didn't.

"I have to travel upstate to make a delivery," he said. "It's an important delivery, and my father wants me to be the one to do it."

To put it simply, I wasn't too fond of the idea, but he told me his father said that he was the only one who he trusted to handle the job.

"It'll just be a few days," he said, "a week at the most."

He planted a kiss on my forehead right before he left.

Just a few days, a week at the most.

But those few days turned into a week, and that week turned into a few weeks, and those few weeks turned into several months, until those months turned into two years.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All resemblance to actual people, places, incidents, or things is completely coincidental.