I’ll grit my teeth and keep posting one letter after the other.
The cops raided Anna’s apartment while I was posting last night. They busted a lot of LES DIY members, took their documents, computers, tablets, smartphones, and humble cell phones. They took the volunteers in for questioning, too—but not for long. They released Anna before I could figure out where she had gone.
Her door was removed, her daughter’s things scattered, her kitchen smashed like an old still after a revenuers’ raid. No more food for the needy, RAISE be praised.
Anna is here with me now. I drafted Mark to fetch her and her things with his new car. The idiot tried to flirt with her.
Unlike me, Anna fights hard not to judge others. I’m afraid she’ll implode if the government keeps pushing her. She’s furious that they arrested the group’s doctors and nurses and told the media that her free medics were quacks exploiting the poor and ignorant. The doctor who saved my life is in jail now, at risk of losing his. Contributions to the group’s efforts by a few people they treated are being pitched as illicit fees. This is what they do to Howard Roark in The Fountainhead.
Anna and I drank whiskey and held each other: Still breathing, still real. How can anyone make me so glad I’m alive in the midst of such a nightmare?
In my panic, I called Bart at his newspaper. No answer. He did warn me. Good for him!
Now to sleep off the shock—together at least.