I woke up. It was a warm, summer day. The bees were a buzzing, the birds were a singing, and I spent my day, as I always have, lazing on the couch. My Mother and ‘Father’ have already left the house. They wave at me, their marks staring back at me. Everyone has a mark. Since the day they were born, there had been a mark on everyone’s wrist. I, a slothful shut in, was born without a mark, which mad...