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.
