The Family Wants Your Lairs

James Monroe has found a way to prop his head to rest, and the foul recess of a damp wooden box closes his sore, shallow eyes. And in that tranquil place, memories come to his mind. He can hear the whizzing of shots overhead, a tiller with fire or distance. A body is being hoisted by the leg, raised to a winch in the opening above. Besides the holes drilled into the hull, it is the sole source of light, air, and sometimes food. The family wants your lairs. Who knows what kind of revolution they be having? Think about all of them before you have come and had this on. They all family want you there