September 1970, USA
No no no no no no no no. Not my baby. Please, God, if you're really there... please don't take him.
She couldn't help the wave of dread that overwhelmed her, the sobbing, the fear when she heard the words come out of her son's mouth. As she sat on the sofa, she nervously picked at her long silky hair, her heart beating faster and faster.
She could barely hear what was going on one room over, but she knew what they were doing. She could hear their mumbles, her husband probably barely keeping himself together as he watched their son pack.
Pack for what? A death sentence?
No, no. She couldn't think that. She couldn't believe that.
She came back to reality when she heard the door to her son's bedroom squeak shut. Her husband walked out looking like all hope and spirits had been drained from him.
Then again, that was probably the truth.
He glanced her way with saddened eyes before heading for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"The garage."
She frowned, "what for? It's nearly dinner time."
"Sewing machine's in there."
"Sewing machine?"
He nodded as he threw on a jacket. "I can't let him be sent off without anything," he sighed, "I just hope my needle work is as good as it was thirty years ago."