In front of every big house, barbed wire fences kept away the chaos that hit this town. All the windows were covered with wooden boards, blocking the view and the sun. These houses never looked so intimidating and desolate.

Looted trucks and cars sat in the streets, their doors ajar. The lawns looked like patches of dead desert in some lots, and in others, weed jungle.

I could hear voices from the houses, and they were gruff, loud, and angry. I didn’t know who these people were, but these new house residents couldn’t possibly be the people who used to live here. I didn’t think any of the Camp prisoners made it this way.

All of a sudden, I felt so lonely. Someone, anyone, come back. I backed up into a clean wall behind me, only to have my legs sink down on the concrete. The ground was also thankfully relatively clean.

Near the doors, in bright red paint, appeared the bold letter M. The paint had bled, adding a horror element to it. Every M had been crossed out later with spray paint. The “art” was dreadful, and this was all I could focus on as I kept walking.

I ventured closer to the doors on a quiet block and finally noticed it. All the doors were broken. Some doors were barely mended. So all of these residents were people who took the houses by force.

Whether the other half of the town fled or not, this invasion of newcomers was loathsome. The new arrivals, are these people working together with the bad men that imprisoned us? Did they use brute force or occupy it after it was deserted?

None of them belong here. Do I belong here? Am I about to panic and cry?

I saw some people walking about like zombies. I held myself tightly and walked away from the main streets.

They looked defeated by life and the surrounding elements, or maybe they were a bit weary and uncoordinated because they were drunk in the middle of the day. Maybe they didn’t fit in this town and the alienation crushed them. I watched as they walked into the shade that darkened their slumped backs. This is the walk of the hopeless. Even the prisoners of Camp Allegan had more spirit.

One of them was heading my way. I hid fast behind the nearby mound of garbage. I didn’t want them to know of my existence yet.

As I hid there holding my nose, I decided not to announce myself. I couldn’t trust these people or their intentions. Drowning men will drag you down if you let them. I wasn’t going to ask for help from people who could barely pull themselves together.

As soon as I could make myself scarce, I sprinted away to avoid contact. I ran, not looking back, as if eye contact was enough to transfer their disease to me.

My next course of action—my wisest, safest plan—was to seek refuge in my own home. I slowed and walked with caution towards my old home, to make sure no one followed.

Another odd thing I noticed had to do with the new populace. I’ve seen quite a few people now, but where were all the kids and teens?

Are their teenagers stolen like the Camp Allegan teens? Are they here? Are they even alive?

I felt that knot of suspicion draw itself tight in the pit of my empty stomach. If the teenagers are here, they're kept hidden like dirty little secrets. This whole town is worse than Camp Allegan.

Fields of farmland hugged the road and not a moment too soon. I was hungry and tired, in need of a good rest.

I trekked my way to the center of Farmer Michael’s land. Past his house was our farmworker house.

Seeing his uprooted crops, I nearly fainted. The land and the blueberry bushes were neglected, barren. I had never seen a Malvao shrub completely shrivel and collapse into itself until now.

The old Malvao trees—the shrubs that grew into trees from Dad’s cultivation days—stood unhurt, but their leaves curled in, diseased. They had been harvested by who knows, but there were so many burst Malvao pods that stained the ground. Inexperienced pickers, that’s what happened. Such a waste. The Malvao pods from trees had a whole year to bear fruit and would have fetched ten times the price of a shrub’s pod.