Retention Protocol

They board quietly. I set the course.

The girl stands by the window. Eighteen today.

The woman mentions it immediately. As if it explains everything.

She says they're going out to celebrate. She says this not as a story, but as a record that must hold.

Twelve hours of labor. Extreme heat. No water. Strapped to the table.

She screamed. She fainted. They almost cut her open.

Then the girl was born. Naturally. Without help.

The woman pauses. She has done this before.

The girl's birthday has always been about that day.

She doesn't move. Her head stays against the glass.

She asks if they're getting cake.

The woman says yes, as if granting something.

She was not looking for blame. She was looking for a witness.

She found one. Every year. On the same day.

I carry people. Their words travel with them.