No! I screamed at her, but she continued to rise, her anger growing quickly. I intercepted her and tried to restrain her, latching on as securely as I was able. We struggled briefly, but she was far stronger than me. She threw me off, but a small thread of her came with me. She stopped, confused, as though she had just misplaced something important. Presently, she lost interest in me entirely and receded to her dark corner, puzzled.

I looked at the thread I had obtained and knew precisely what it was: one of my memories. As little as I wanted it, I wanted her to have it even less. Dreading what I might find, I unraveled it.

A white tiled room… a padded table… intense pain… a doctor and nurse attend to me… the pain ends… a newborn cries… the nurse gives me a child to hold and she’s perfect … the doctor barks an order… the nurse seizes my daughter from me and they leave…

I had had no idea. Camp 32 stole my daughter and my memories of her.

I became rage.