I never say the babies’ names, because there is danger in that. I know that their names spoken, details given, things brought too much into the light, means we can be found. Their ears own so much: text, air, radio-waves, the water we drink, words, especially words. I am not naïve enough to believe that my story is my own. You think the interior of a story is a safe place to lose yourself? Think again. They can get in anywhere, like cockroaches with the longest antennas you’ve ever seen. I am careful when telling my story, this story, knowing that they are ready, at any turn, to make it theirs. That is why the babies’ must remain nameless babies, why you don’t know where we live, what my real age is, how many men have come and gone. I thought if I went deep enough inside the words, inside a story, they couldn’t find us: I could carry the babies’ in my arms, one baby per arm, following a trail of words that would take us further and further away from the place where they found and took my mother. My mother had been the wrong kind of invisible, and they, the men in numbered suits, the red wind goblins, they, whoever you imagine they to be, took my mother and have not returned her, so I had to tear up new rabbit holes using only my teeth and wits, new rabbit holes that kept me and the babies’ moving through wordless and storyless places. You have to create and lose yourself in your own labyrinth, your own set of underground tunnels. Yet every time I speak, every time I narrate this, that, or another thing, I am placing the babies’ and me in danger, I am sending out smoke signals that will attract the wrong kind of visitors. I cannot keep quiet. I have tried, you cannot know how hard I’ve tried (you wouldn’t know because my silence would tell you nothing, it is the hiding place words that have agreed to keep quiet). Since I cannot silence myself, what I can do, what I am doing is trying to throw them off the trail, calling things by other names, or no names at all, I am trying to operate outside time (though the present moment is everything), so if you see me outside of where I am right now, and somehow recognize me, please do not ask me my name, and do not ask me to provide you with details and clear information. Understand that I dreamed, and in dreaming I kept the babies’ and me alive.