My brother, a police officer, arrested me during Sunday dinner, right in front of our family. “You’re under arrest for impersonating a military officer and theft of government property,” my own brother snarled as he slammed my face onto the cold marble floor of our grandmother’s dining room, his knee digging into my back. As he snapped the handcuffs onto my wrists, the door suddenly burst open. A four-star general and his men marched in. “Lieutenant!” he roared. “Step away from the general right now.”

The dining room froze. Aunt Linda gasped. Grandma Margaret gripped her napkin until her knuckles turned white. Twenty-three pairs of eyes looked at me like I was a stranger.

I didn’t flinch. I stood up slowly, my hands steady.

“You don’t have jurisdiction over me, Mark.”

“You’re not in your fantasy combat zone now,” he sneered, spinning me around. The ha;ndcu;ffs clicked shut—cold, tight, and final. “Jordan Hayes, you have the right to remain silent.”

He shoved me down. My face pressed against the hardwood, the smell of lemon polish filling my nose. My entire family watched the “weird” cousin become a criminal in real-time. But I didn’t resist. I didn’t beg. Because some wars aren’t fought with fists. They are won in what happens next.

The front door blew open.