Dates.
Infractions.
Consequences.
One line.
March 4.
Violation: spoke to neighbor without permission.
Consequence: 18-hour reset.
Another.
March 11.
Violation: refused peas.
Consequence: no evening meal + room.
Another.
March 22.
Violation: told teacher she felt scared.
My skin went cold.
Consequence: communication restriction.
I looked at Brenna.
“What does communication restriction mean?”
“No talking.”
“For how long?”
“Until Dad says.”
Maya whispered something under her breath.
I pretended not to hear.
Then Brenna said.
“There’s another thing.”
I turned.
“What?”
She walked to the computer.
Did not touch it.
Pointed at a camera monitor mounted beside it.
Four little screens.
Front door.
Living room.
Kitchen.
Her bedroom.
Her bedroom.
I stared.
The camera was angled toward her bed.
My stomach tightened.
“Is that always on?”
“Yes.”
“Does your father watch it?”
“Yes.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
“Does he record?”
“I think.”
Maya immediately radioed.
“Supervisor, expedite.”
This was no longer unusual parenting.
This was surveillance.
Isolation.
Potential unlawful confinement.
And maybe more.
Brenna started crying.
Quietly.
I crouched.
“What happened?”
“You’re going to take Dad away.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“He’ll be mad.”
“You are not responsible for his feelings.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t understand.”
Then she said the sentence that changed everything.
“He thinks I’m not Brenna.”
I stared.
