It started with a knock on the door at 6:00 AM, the kind that rattles the frame. I pulled on my robe, thinking it was the police checking on our eccentric neighbor again. I wasn’t afraid, just annoyed at the disturbance so early in the morning.
I opened the door an inch, and twelve officers immediately swarmed into our small apartment. They didn’t ask me any questions; they moved with terrifying precision straight toward the bedroom where my husband was sleeping.
I chased after them, screaming, “What is happening? What do you want with Bobby?” One agent blocked my path, his hand resting near his holster, while the others surrounded the bed.
An agent leaned over my waking husband and asked a question that made no sense. “What is your name?” My husband whispered a name I had never heard in my life.
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