It’s thirteen minutes after eight in the morning. I open the fridge to reach for the gallon of milk to pour over my cereal. Someone knocks at the door and I jump, soon realizing my bran flakes are swimming in a puddle of milk. There goes my breakfast.
“Be right there,” I shout from the kitchen.
Puzzled, I find myself looking through the peephole to my apartment’s door. Two men dressed in black, topped off with dark sunglasses, stand on the other side. I open the door. This morning is about to get more enigmatic.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the man on the right claimed in a monotone, masculine voice. “You are under arrest by the federal government of the United States of America.”
A pair of FBI badges are then shoved in my face. I try my hardest not to scream out and cry for help, but I refuse to let myself disobey. I am ordered to turn around, and my wrists become locked inside handcuffs. I pinch myself. This is not a nightmare. The worst part is that I don’t know why I am so obedient.