In the demilitarized record hall, I hand over a slip of demilitarized paper, and the clerk smiles at my accent. You’ve traveled a long way, she says as she leads me to the demilitarized stacks. We find my family’s genealogy book. We turn to the last generation recorded before the world ended and our line split south. I unfold my paper with the list of missing names. The clerk copies the letters as I read them. Together, we demilitarize my family. The sun coming in through the windows says, ah. ah.
