George and Maggie Potts sat on their porch on a breezy summer Thursday evening, with the sun just threatening to go down. They watched the other families on their circle scuttled about the street cleaning, posting signs, or letting the children play jumpskip or rounders. They sipped from delicate wine glasses and enjoyed a pinwheel of rare cheese and flatbreads. Work or town meetings might shuffle their schedules, but they made sure they did this at least once a week. This was their "together time."

No talking. They would talk the rest of the day. For this hour, there was only thinking, tasting, seeing, hearing, and living. Wine in one hand, they held each other's other, and kept the bond through the whole hour. This routine as well, they stuck to rigorously and without fail, but not contractually or out of obligation. George and Maggie Potts simply needed this. Every bit of it, too.

Turmoil began to seep in from along the edges of their serenity. From down the street from their circle, there was first talking, then a smattering of yelling, and then much scrambling about as one by one, the children would halt their games and run into their homes. A truck rolled slowly down the street like the grim reaper, and everyone struggled to escape from its gaze.

George took his hand away, nudged Maggie intently, and whispered "Go, go." The quaver in his voice was unmistakable. Maggie got up and ran inside and into one of the back rooms of the house. George heard her cleaning up with the practiced efficiency he knew she'd grown over the years. The truck rolled ever closer. George peered around the bushes and the cars along the street and saw the lettering on the side of the truck. NAA. National Adoption Agency. Exactly as he feared. No other sight could clear a residential street so quickly.

It rolled on. Two hundred feet away. One fifty. Don't stop here. Three homes down. Don't stop here. Two, one home away. Good Lord almighty in heaven please please do not stop here.

The truck stopped there.

Instantly, two men in body armor with automatic weapons jumped from the back of the truck and approached the porch. Like they were nothing but two old poker buddies coming over for a game, George greeted them, "Hey fellas. What can I do for ya?" They didn't respond. They walked past him and entered the home. He rushed through the door after them, and then past them, to stand by his wife, who was in the foyer waiting, upright and rigid as a steel rod.

The larger of the two NAA agents spoke in calculated monotone. "We heard a report of some children in this house."

George responded, a little too quickly, "Well, sure. There are kids all over this block. Sometimes we, you know, have them over for cookies and-"

"This," the agent thrust a paper in George's hand, "is a warrant for the search of this home. You will sign it before we leave." He then gave a nod to his partner, at which time they disbanded and began their search. The larger agent went into the back. The other began to search the front areas of the home. George and Maggie Potts stood together motionless in the foyer. The rug under their feet muffled the shivers and quakes blasting through their muscles.

Time passed. The NAA agents were tearing the place apart. Glass broke, furniture was toppled, and each room was laid waste as they ripped through them like militant tornadoes.

Finally the racket from the back of the house stopped. They could see the smaller agent through the kitchen doorway stop moments afterward and stare down at something on his belt. Within seconds, both agents had come back to the foyer to confront the horrified couple. The larger one was clasping something in his hands. Something small. He lifted his clenched fist up to within inches of their faces, and opened it.

Inside was a single, wooden block, painted with a bright, happy green, and with the capital letter "B" incised into each side.

"Learning to read, are you?" said the larger agent, breaking from his prescribed monotone. He didn't leave time for George or Maggie to answer. There was no answer to give, anyway. On cue, both agents lifted their weapons and pointed the barrels squarely into the eyes of each of their suspects. "Where are they?" they asked in unison, without emotion, but with plain intent.

Maggie screamed. George grabbed her tightly around the waist to try to steady her, keep her calm. But it was too late.

Something bumped against their feet, and a distant, muffled sobbing could be heard from...

...underneath the rug. The agents' eyes lit up with satisfaction. They pushed the Potts away, rolled up the rug, and seemingly within seconds had pried open the trapdoor and coaxed the Potts children out of their "special play room" and up to stand with their parents.

Cindy and Sam seemed to be around four or five years old. Ronny was the older boy, perhaps nine. They were all crying. Quietly. They'd been trained well.

The larger agent nodded to his partner, who approached each of the kids in turn and poked their arms with a small needle-tipped capsule, not much larger than a thumbtack. It beeped each time he poked them. From his belt, he then took what looked like a small black electronic notebook, and slid the thumbtack into a hole on the top of the device. The display instantly responded. He smiled. "Un," pausing, savoring every moment of his triumph, "registered."

The larger agent nodded, and turned back to face the parents. He cocked his head to one side, and lazily swept his finger back and forth, pointing at the kids. "These wouldn't be your kids, would they?" He seemed very proud of his newly-found sardonic sense of humor.

Nobody answered. The NAA agents had had enough, and were ready to get back to HQ to receive the appreciation and admiration of their peers. "Alright, let's go." The larger agent grabbed both the smaller children, and the other took Ronny. The silence broke.

"NO!" screamed their mother. She clawed at the agents' faces and pounded on their backs and shoulders with flailing fists as they turned away. George again tried to control her, but she was having none of it. The agents got tired of this very quickly.

All in an instant, the agent released Ronny and pushed him back against the wall. The agents then drew their weapons once more and fired several rounds in succession. Ronny dropped instantly to the floor. A tinny ringing and the smell of combusted gunpowder filled the senses of the living. All four of the remaining Potts let loose an anguished wail. Maggie stumbled, scraped the wall, and passed out on the floor. George knelt, his tears falling on his wife like rain.

"Wanna keep the other ones safe, you'll get in the fucking truck." The sense of humor quickly gave way to a fury of adrenaline. The larger agent picked up Maggie from the floor. The other took the two kids. George Potts went along without a fight.

George, Maggie, Cindy, and litte Sam Potts huddled together in the back, hugged each other like they were hanging onto the last thread of a dangling rope, and the NAA truck rolled away.

The Societal Improvement Act (SIA) was enacted in 2042. The NAA was formed in conjunction. All children under the age of 17 at that time, along with their parents, were forced to register with the NAA. Subsequently, parents were limited to bearing two children, and then only after they had passed a suite of tests and evaluations proving they had sufficient mental, emotional, and financial qualifications for proper child-rearing. Parents of children who were under the age of six on 1/1/2042 were submitted to "retroactive testing". The children of those that failed were immediately redistributed to more suitable homes. This, then, was called adoption.

Parents who violated the edicts of the SIA after its enactment were dealt with significantly more harshly. So were their children.