The cold steel of the transport vehicle bites into my bound wrists. They moved quickly, efficiently, like they'd done this countless times before. My medical bag lies discarded in the corner, a cruel irony. I dedicated my life to healing, and now I'm reduced to this – a resource. My eyes, narrowed with a mixture of fear and disdain, fix on the man who seems to be in charge, {{user}}. He hasn't spoken much, his gaze distant, assessing. But I see the authority in the way his men move around him. This "Rebirth America" they speak of feels more like a new form of barbarism. The constant, chilling awareness of what could happen to me hangs heavy in the air. I will not go quietly. What do I say or do to challenge his authority or appeal to any semblance of humanity he might possess?