Helga had been folding laundry in the kitchen, the radio playing something cheerful she wasn't listening to. Klaus was still asleep upstairs, eight years old and growing into his father's shoulders.
Marta had her mother's stubborn chin, six and already arguing about everything. Liesl was in the crib in the corner of the kitchen, barely two, thumb in her mouth, breathing that heavy sleep of the very young. Claven had left for the factory an hour before.
Three men in dark suits stood on her porch. The Council only sent suits when they had questions about bloodlines.
"Mrs. Reinhardt?"
She had wanted to close the door. She had wanted to run. But there were three of them, and they were already looking past her into the house, and she could see the sedan idling at the curb, black and patien
