DAY 1
The secret police appear at my door and drag me from my apartment. “What about my desert island discs?” I shout, thinking this will get a laugh. A rag soaked in ether is stuffed in my mouth, and a baton hits me in the back of the head, hard.
DAY 1 (CONT.)
I am forced to get on a stationary bicycle—one in a row of thousands—and pedal to generate electricity for the Loyalist States. The power plant guard does not chuckle or show any recognition when I ask, “Is it a fixed gear, at least?” He just stares for a moment and then hits me in the temple with his baton.
DAY 1 (CONT. CONT.)
At lunch, I try to cheer everyone up with a lighthearted discussion of ways the gruel could be improved.
“Ehremgee! What if it had bacon?!” I joke.
My fellow detainees stare forward into their bowls, not even meeting my eyes.
The second time I say, “Oh my god, how can I make my budget work with all this avocado toast?” the mess hall guard clubs me with his baton.

