"You can jail a Revolutionary, but you can't jail the Revolution." Huey Newton

The house filled with the cold static of the radio. Within every household in America, radios played out constant noise of music, history lessons, news bulletins, sports. At night it would play a lullaby of rolling rivers and wind chimes to hush all to sleep. Never off, it wasn't allowed, channels were plentiful so none would be bored. Only when the sharp white noise aired, like wind in a tunnel, did everyone know that across the country all were listening to the same thing at once.

No one in the house moved, in fear of missing the broadcast. It could be a hurricane warning, or simply a test screening, or even a message from the President. Sweat tickled foreheads as the noise came to a halt. Instead of continuing the usual, a voice uttered a single word.

“Dawn.”

Across the room her mother choked on her own tears. Dawn stayed where she was. Without moving her head, Dawn could hear her baby brother race down the stairs to the family room. Shaking hands turned her to face her mothers crying face. The next few moments were wasted with yelling and cursing, her mother trying to at once tighten her hold and yet push her awy. Once a fear of neighbors hearing did an opening arise.

“I haven't done anything that I wouldn't do again.”

“Dawn, the names they call, it doesn't matter if it's a Dawn here or a Dawn ten states away, they take you all. You might not come back for a year, or two—or not at all.” Her father never came back after his name was called.

The Central Surveillance for Preserving the Union kept daily recordings of every citizens movements, internet searches and phone calls. The radio reporters would preach to no end how these actions helped to keep us a strong and unified nation against those who would disrupt our way of living. They did not speak on how the last foreign threat to American soil happened thirty years ago. Regardless, the CSPU continued to monitor those ruled as “unpatriotic”, and announced their dissention via public broadcast, so that all who were “true Americans” could celebrate in “justice”.

“They'll be here in moments. What did you do?”

The call wasn't a cry for her name. It was a proclamation. Dawn, the start of a new day. It was a signal to rise. Pulling out her red and black scarf, Dawn kissed her mother before heading towards the door. Across the country others would be doing the same, leaving their homes to march together.

“You can't win, they'll lock you up and erase you!”

“They'll erase us from radio, from movies, from history books. But you'll know. He'll know.” Dawn smiled at the young face of her brother. She'd march, fight, and die, so that he and others wouldn't have to. She'd never known justice, but she'd continue on so that one day they could.