Benjamin is one of only two states with more than three cafés in its district (the second is Judah, the capital). One of them is sited on the outskirts of the town, for the traveler seeking to quench his hunger and thirst before entering the city proper. Of course, the term café is colloquial, as it is little more than a kiosk. The other one – the actual café – is just off center of the town – merely two blocks from the Temperance residence. The third is in the school district, for students to use during the break periods.

Deborah found herself frequenting the second cafe more often as she grew older. It was easier to concentrate there – the constant chatter being little more than background noise she wasn't obligated to acknowledge. As long as she'd done all her chores, there was no reason she couldn't be allowed to come when she wanted. The café was nothing more than a glorified meeting place for nowadays, and everyone watched everyone. There was nothing she could do that her parents wouldn;'t know about.

She passed the Wiseman's residence on her way out of the street. Mrs. Wiseman, coming into her compound holding bags of groceries, smiled and waved when Deborah greeted her. Her smile was warm and inviting.

Deborah would pass the Wiseman's residence on her way to the Academy every day. One of those times, she witnessed the same Mrs. Wiseman furiously whip her child. There are no walls or fences around homes in Sinai, because holy ground is not bound. Out in the open she thrashed her child, with a stick so wild and uneven that she had to have cut it from a tree somewhere. Between lashes the boy would cry for forgiveness and mercy, and would receive nothing but the threat of more lashes. And then more lashes. And the boy would cry louder, for forgiveness and mercy. And then received nothing but the threat of more lashes. And then more lashes.

Deborah stood and watched all this for about fifteen minutes. She was the only one who did. The child was still being whipped when she left.

Thinking back to that time, as Mrs. Wiseman hurried into the house, Deborah remembered that it wasn't too long ago. Wasn't it yesterday, sef?

When she returned from school, she found Mrs. Wiseman sitting outside with her son, reading the Bible aloud, and they were laughing together. She wondered if it had even happened.

Once she turned at the Rule 5 sign on the end of the street, she could see the Café in the distance. She never missed an opportunity to stop by the sign, of course – one of ten that was scattered around town. About the width of a wide window, and about half as long, it proudly displayed an image of dear Papa, greeting his children as they passed him by, along with a single rule.

There are ten rules. There are many laws, but there are ten rules. Simple enough to remember. Robust enough guide the people through the day. Every law that was decided by the Senate and stamped into the Constitution of Sinai – itself practically considered holy – was fearfully and wonderfully constructed around each of these rules.

The rules were taught and reiterated in schools and chapels, in the homes and in the square, in work and in play. And they were proudly displayed around the city, along with Papa, God's chosen shepherd, as a reminder that those who forget them run the risk of angering – or worse, disappointing – their shepherd. And their Father by extension.

RULE 5:

HONOR YOUR FATHER AND YOUR MOTHER, SO YOUR DAY'S MAY BE LONG IN THE LAND.

Deborah was sure to read the words whenever she passed the sign, even though she never needed to. Fourteen words that she had read, studied, recited, and been told again and again. She had known the rule even before she had known her own name. And so had Cain. And Seth. And every child born under the flag of Sinai – the lone white dove on flaming red. It would be close to sinful if any child ever forgot it; for who did not want their days to be long in such a blessed land as Sinai?

Then she would regard the image of Papa – his loving gaze and wise smile piercing through passers-by – and wonder if he could somehow see through those stagnant eyes.

He wouldn't be the one watching, of course.

There weren't so many people in the cafeteria today, as was usual for a Sunday. People were either serving at the church or having their meals with their families. Most people at the café would either hang around outside or sit making conversation, both small and involved. Hardly anyone would buy food – least of all Deborah, who had no money. And despite the size of the establishment, the options weren't exactly bountiful. Jollof rice mostly. There was more to gain just preparing a meal in the comfort of your own home. The telescreen was dead, and it wouldn't be turned on until later in the evening when some soccer match of certain importance was to start, and Deborah hoped to be done by the time that happened.

Thirty minutes passed and she was already done inking her first panel. The little girl, no longer marred by the abomination of that line, directed an innocent gaze to a large, homely woman hunched over a sink full of plates – hard not to recognize as her mother. Deborah had initially considered a ganglier body type for her, but later decided a voluptuous one would be more believable. Or maybe just more appealing to the reader? Maybe she thought a larger woman would gain more sympathy as a mother to a rambunctious child – a woman whose girth reflected the prosperity of the household under her. Soft enough to comfort the child when needed, but who could also intimidate, and whose punishments – all good punishments should be physical, spoiling the rod so the child may be spared later – would be felt long after.

"And what do you think that means exactly?"

"I don't understand."

"I mean..." He hissed. "How do I explain myself now...."

Just two tables to her left, adjacent to the fruit vendors sat two man. Older men, but they did not look much older than her father. One was thin and had large lips and a squished-up face. The other was of a larger build – though not much taller oddly enough – and was a bit darker skinned. Large swaths of hair burst from his lip and chin, forming a perfect line with the hair on his head. He was the kind of person her grandfather – God rest his soul – would have called a "son of Babylon", after he had seen images of the evil Babylonians throwing the ever-pious Daniel into the den of lions, their jaw-like beards stiff in the illustrated wind.

All of this was in a picture bible which Grandpa had given to Cain. She hadn't seen it in well over three years.

Deborah had interacted with the bearded man once, but she couldn'tt remember where, or even what his name was. He knew hers, though. He had waved to her once, and called her by her name, but she couldn't recall exactly how he had gotten it. And when she was honest with herself, it made her uneasy.

The two were engaged in a deeply casual conversation when she arrived, and aside from a few words or sentences that had caught her ear for a bit, she had not paid them much attention. From what she gathered, they were talking about Papa, which was not very uncommon in any public or private space. If not that they were talking loud enough for their words to meet her, their conversation would have safely blended into the background chatter that helped her to concentrate.

"Don't you pay attention?" The bearded man was saying. His voice was warm and deep, easily discernable from his companion's almost hoarse screeching of speech.

"To what exactly?" His companion screeched. "Papa is up there sharing wisdom from the Word. From the Spirit. That's the only thing I'm paying attention to."

"You really don't see it? The bags under his eyes? The way he carries himself? Even the way he speaks. He's clearly tired."

Deborah paused.

Does Papa ever look tired? She could never be sure – he was rarely ever seen outside of Judah, or even outside his own house. She saw him on screen every year – during the Easter Love Festival and the Christmas services, once in a blue moon whenever he wanted to make a personal announcement, and always on Silent Night. She had gazed him all those times as he spoke, his intense stare like he wasn't aware he was behind a camera. The fervor that burst from his every word and enveloped him and even leaked through the screen was nothing short of infectious, and he never struck her as tired. He may have been now that she thought of it. He may have always been. He may be tired even now, in his home, surrounded by the grandchildren he always spoke so fondly of. After days of studying and praying and fasting, only to come out and be responsible for the lives of a country whose father was God. That responsibility had to be tiring, for God, merciful as He was, would never tolerate any decision that jeopardized the security of His own children.

Of course, he's tired, now. He's human like we are, isn't he? Deborah thought, but even she had to admit it was hard to think of Papa as human, especially as she had never physically seen him.

On to the second panel for inking. There is silence now in the page. Mother and daughter just stare at each other, for moments untold. The little girl keeps the innocence on her face, while the mother's hospitable smile is replaced with a blank incredulity.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." The bearded man said. "Let's talk about something else."

The friend hissed. "No. No. Don't be like that, man. Aren't we both brothers in the Lord? I'm a grown man. So are you. We can have a rational conversation, can't we?"

"I honestly don't think we can." Then a pause, followed by some chewing.

"We can, now. We can agree to disagree"

"I don't think we can. You know why...?" Through a full mouth, then a gulp. "You know why? You won't let me bring an opposing viewpoint. We can't agree to disagree if I can't oppose you without you becoming defensive."

"Why're you talking like this, now?"

"I'm not lying, though!" Through a full mouth. "I don't think I'm lying. All I said was..."

Deborah wondered if she should add a mouth to the mother. She'd stopped drawing mouths on characters that weren't speaking, and her mother had once mentioned that they didn't look normal without their mouths, even though they were little more than inconsequential little lines. That was months ago when her Mrs. Temperance was passing by her room with two arms full of laundry – the basket having been damaged on Cain's back for reasons Deborah could not recall. Her mother probably meant nothing by it – she rarely, if ever, took interest in her drawings unless they were finished or being praised – yet it felt somewhat... disobedient of her to not add them.

"Bros, all I'm saying is your priorities are backwards. You're focusing on the all the wrong things." The friend said. "Papa hasput everything in place for us to enjoy ourselves in this life and the next. The Spirit of the Lord is with him, and he wants to make sure we have the right foundation for that Spirit to enter us in that same way. And all you can think of is how tired he is."

The bearded man coughed. "You know what. You're right..." He took a glass of water and gulped it down. Then he coughed again. "You're right. Forget I said anything."

His friend snorted. Deborah head throbbed from the sound. "I don't understand you, man. I don't understand you at all."

"You're right. You're right. Forget I said anything. Let's just eat and go." The bearded man said. Deborah was not looking his way, but she imagined his hands were up in surrender. "I need to pick up something at the library."

The two men continued to eat in silence.

She was almost done with the second panel. It was all coming together well, give or take a few awkward lines. Nothing was wrong with them originally, but now they weren'tt conforming to the greater artwork she had planned. She would have to thin them out probably. Maybe even remove them.

"C...can I sit here please?"

Deborah looked up to see a girl standing across from her. She seemed nervous, possibly anxious, shaking from head to toe, and making numerous false starts before she spoke again. "I'm... I'm waiting for somebody. A frien... A f...f...friend. Can... C... Can I sit here please?"

The girl gestured to the seat across from Deborah, who nodded vaguely. The girl quickly took the seat, as if she were afraid that Deborah would change her mind and cast her away.

The lines seemed disobedient, rebellious almost. Even with years of experience with them, she could never quite make them do as she pleased. Nearly all the strokes were wrong and needed to be redone. Again. And again. Too thin. Too thick. Too straight. Not straight enough. It became worse the harder she tried, as if the lines, the pen and even her hand were conspiring against her. To show her that even they were beyond her control, for no other reason than that was the way it was.

At the end, no single line was perfect.

"You're... you're Deborah, aren't you?"

Deborah's head shot up from the computer. The girl was still there, making a conscious effort to look away. She had probably been staring at her since she sat down. Deborah nodded slowly and turned her attention back to her work.

"I... I read your comics all the time. I think you're very creative."

Creative? Deborah supposed she was, though she'd always thought her work was considerably uninspired, even without the limitations the editor placed on her. She thanked the girl for the comment. The girl said nothing.

Time went by as it always does, and the second panel was finally complete in the end. Was it good? There were awkward curves that should have been straight lines and strange lines that should have been perfect curves. Nobody would notice – no one ever seemed to notice, or even care – but she would always see them. The imperfections and the ugliness and the things that she had tried and failed to control, and they would bother her.

It was far from perfect, but was it good?

Maybe I should start again. She thought. But really, what good would it do at this point, when the time was already wasted?

Lord forgive me.

Deborah glanced at the girl again. Dark. Short hair. Pretty, in an understated way. She was looking around, presumably for the person she was waiting for, although Deborah suspected she was trying not to meet her eye.

The girl was familiar. Not terribly familiar – she definitely hadn't spoken or paid much attention to her, but it was possible she had given her a sideways glance twice or three times; definitely more than once.

Deborah returned to her work, looking up every now and then to see if the girl had left. She never did. She sat there, making pitiful attempts at avoiding eye contact (at one point their eyes locked, and she looked away a tad too abruptly). She was much younger than her – possibly around the same age as Cain, who was barely a teen – so they definitely hadn't seen in any of her classes, or even in the youth group since the olders mostly kept to themselves.

"What's your name?"

The girl nearly jumped. It was only after a short bout of stammering that she finally got it out. "Bright."

The name didn't ring any bells. "What class are you in?"

"Third year."

So, she was fifteen. Deborah thought she looked younger. She had a baby-like face, and eyes that didn't look like they had seen much of the world and its evils. Or maybe she looked the way girls her age normally would, and it was she, Deborah, who was mistaken. Either way, she wasn't in any of her classes.

Suppose she's with the New Gen?

It seemed it was now her turn to avoid eye contact. She considered turning off her computer and leaving at that moment but decided against it. It would probably put her under their scrutiny, which would only defeat the purpose of all she had been doing for years now. She was probably being silly, but one didn't get a perfect record without watching what one said or did around strangers, especially eerily familiar ones. She was the only one in her age group with a perfect record, so she would know.

Was this little New Generation spy, trying to coax her into revealing some of the secret crimes she was committing? At first glance, it seemed unlikely. She lacked the casualty and finesse one would naturally expect from an effective spy. But it was also possible that the intention was for her to let her get down, and do something she didn't even know wasn't allowed under the law of the school, or the Land as a whole. That was how people got strikes: through carelessness and overestimating their own piety.

That was what happened to a boy from the former year – Jonah was his name – who had a female friend he had been close to since his first year. He felt he knew her well and was so confident that she would never spy on him that he told her everything about himself, and she did the same. Eventually, as the rumor went, he told her in confidence that he was considering the possibility that God did not exist, a statement even the most wayward children would never make lightly. Not long after, a white bus was seen parked outside Jonah's house, and he wasn't seen again until the next Silent Night.

Many said he believed too much in his friend. Others said he was simply foolish, as that was the only way he could entertain the notion that condemned him. Of course, that wasn't anyone's place to say, least of all Deborah's. Only God had that claim to knowledge. Her only business in the matter was to learn from the story, and she had learnt quite a lot.

I should finish this panel quickly. Deborah thought. But Bright glanced her way once again, and Deborah's pen stayed frozen over the tablet. Through the corner of her eye, she noticed the men were getting up. The bearded man was brushing off crumbs from his shirt. She wondered if any were caught in his beard. There must be. She thought, though why it concerned her she was not sure.

The bearded man coughed and checked his watch. "Let's go, man. Fellowship will start soon, and I won't have a chance to pick up that book during the week."

"I'm ready when you are." His friend replied, dusting his own shirt. "I honestly don't understand you sometimes, though..."

The bearded man raised a hand. "Just forget I said anything about what I said."

"It's okay. It's okay. I'm sorry, sef. It's understandable that you would be concerned for Papa. It's even good you noticed how tired he was..."

"Of course, I'm concerned. Papa is very important, and he does a lot of things at a time. And he's an old man; a lot of his responsibilities are physically tasking."

The bearded man seemed to be the only one who did not realize what he had said wrong. Deborah didn't even think he had spoken so loudly until she felt the silence in the hall. Bright gasped, and the sound bounced off the walls, echoing in the painful silence.

"What did I say?" The bearded man asked.

"Why are you insulting Papa?!" his friend – though he no longer seemed friendly – demanded.

"What?"

"Why would you call him old?! What kind of insult is that?!" The friend screeched. He tried to push against the bearded man. The bearded man was larger, however, so he remained unmoved. "Don't you have any respect?!"

The bearded man sputtered. "How did I insult him? He's old. Like..." he looked around the room, trying to gather a more comprehensive explanation for his thoughtcrime. Eventually, he settled on: "He...he's old. It's just... he's old, now. I don't understand."

Only God knows if he was ever able to understand, because what happened next was too fast for comprehension, even after Deborah went home and replayed the events in her mind. Before she could blink, a larger man – from the chapel's cleaning unit – grabbed the bearded man and locked his arm around his neck, tighter than the grip of sin. The man's friend – though that title would be debatable from then on – came forward and hit him three times in the face. The bearded man kicked out, trying to fight back, but the hold on his neck was too strong, and he soon couldn't breathe. After a kick to the stomach, the bearded man was thrown to the ground, where his beating continued, joined by a few more men, and some brave women, in the crowd. The rest of them found plastic cutlery and food packs – some still laden with food - to pelt him with.

The bearded man flailed about on the ground. Punching, kicking, swearing, trying to get to his feet - anything to protest what was in essence penance, which the mob believed was too good for him. From where she sat, watching the fray, Deborah wondered what she could do. She could stop the crowd, she supposed, or at the very least help him to his feet. Something that wasn't nothing.

But what good will it do? She thought. Who would listen to me?

Everyone in that mob were adults, her seniors, and surrogate parents by the law of Sinai and God. Older, wiser, and much more learned in the ways of the world and the Lord. If they deemed their actions to be right, then stopping it would be disrespectful, and would bring dishonor to her parents. It would make her wayward.

She would get a strike on her record. And be beaten on top.

And that would be unnecessary, especially after the bearded man had freed himself of his strength of will and dashed out of the café as quickly as his long legs could carry him. Some of his attackers – his tentative friend included – pursued, while the rest dispersed, talking among themselves. The words "insult", "wayward", "useless man" and "that his beard" surfaced constantly. Peace slowly returned to the café, in the form of noise.

Bright had disappeared, presumably during the pummeling. There were many exits in the building; she could have slipped out easily once it became too uncomfortable to bear. Deborah turned to her work with rising trepidation – she had neglected to sleep her computer when her back was turned. She prayed that her work hadn't been exposed to prying eyes while her back was turned. And if they had, then those prying eyes wouldn't be the wrong ones. She had come too far to slip up now. And her work seemed to cause ire in the eyes of Lord nowadays.

You could never be too careful. Or too careless. Even friends couldn't be trusted.