The Apple and the Tree

The rain clears and Mother tells me to put on some clean clothes. “Let’s go,” she says. She doesn’t say where to. And she forbids me from telling anyone about our trip, especially Grandfather and Grandmother. Our destination turns out to be the police station in Dumoga, a district located in the Bolaang Mondow regency of North Sulawesi, which is where we live. Mother speaks to the officer guarding the gate, and we are escorted to the farthest end of the room where the holding cells are. The cells are dark and stuffy, even during the day. The odour of old buildings and mould fill the air.