EVEL EYE-PAD

I remember the night in 1976 when it came to a head. We were out on our bikes when dad came home and I was called in. I knew I was in deep trouble. As usual it was Dad's job to mete out the punishment. But first, the crime: 

“He’s been out all day playing with his friends,” Mum began. “He hasn’t touched that Eye-Pad once, or been anywhere near the couch. I told him after his lunch to go and lock himself in his bedroom in a sultry and withdrawn manner, but he wasn’t having any of it. Next time I look, there they all are outside again, running around in the sunshine." 

RECOVERED

I’m being Recovered.  Processed like a piece of lost luggage, or a suspicious package, by an elite group of highly trained individuals with walkie-talkies, bright yellow waistcoats and passes round their necks that give them access to absolutely anywhere.

The family huddled next to me seem to have been in Recovery for much longer than I. Days possibly.  They look malnourished and worn out.  The children are tearful and listless. The mother comforts them as best she can.  The father is clearly exhausted, asking repeatedly for information.  When will they get help?  When can they leave?  Or at least I assume that’s the kind of thing he’s asking because it’s not in English.  And the Recovery Team only talks in English.  And only into walkie-talkies.