I do not know what my husband is involved in with these people. He will not tell me. I have followed him at night, weaving in the shadows, around lights, to find this place. I have watched him gain entrance. I have gone around every wall of this building. There are no windows I can see into; they are painted black.

There has been talk of the remnants of the rebellion. That there is a network of those who help siphon the lost voices out of the country. I do not know that these people are them, except now I can recognize an eye, a voice. I go home and wait. To wait and to pray, as if penance is due for our sins.