Dree lay upon the bed of their room on the resort kibbutz near Eilat, looking up at the ceiling with a brooding ennui natural to a teenager. It was well 6:30 in the morning. Being conscious right now had to be violating some sort of Vacation Code of Law.  “Av, I don't get why we need to go to Qumran today. It’s early! I mean, they found the Dead Sea Scrolls, right? We've seen them in museums. What’s there to see? Empty caves and pottery bits?” Father and son only had so much time alone together, and this was to be their special trip before his last year at school. Dree would much have rathered another day of snorkeling, but his father had been insistent he take in some history as well.
 
His father, who was in the adjoining bathroom, grunted in response to his son’s complaints and questions. There was the sound of the faucet running and tapping as he cleaned the razor.  Dree propped himself up on his elbow and craned his neck, catching a glimpse of his father’s reflection in the mirror: chin white with shaving cream as he systematically and slowly, infuriatingly slowly, razored it away. Dree sighed and buried his face into the bed with a groan.
 
“Abbaaaaaaaa. . .”
 
There was a knock at the door. Dree heard, somehow, his father stop shaving. “Dree, you get that?” he asked.
 
With a roll of his eyes, Dree rose to his feet and ambled to the door as slowly as he could; determined to punish whoever was dragging him out of bed, determined to move at vacation speed while doing it. Despite almost a complete minute’s passage, there had been no repeat knock. Dree hoped the person on the other side had left as he reached for the handle.
 
He had not opened the door more than a foot—there was a glimpse of a man’s shoulders; a sliver of face—before it was blasted open, flying off its hinges and throwing Dree to the floor beneath its weight. The pain in his head was red and blinding and aching.
 
Dazed, he was trying to get up from beneath the door, but the room shifted unpredictably. Too quickly, he was jerked roughly from the ground and nearly off his feet. Dree slumped heavily forward, allowing himself to be handled, finding himself unable to stand or lift his head on his own. He felt something warm, wet, and heavy roll through his hair and down the side of his face.
 
“Dreogan Eleor?” he heard his name spoken by the other man, but knew from its tone – the threat of business that crept into it – that they were speaking to his father. Dree swallowed as he felt the wooden tip of a wand on his throat; he felt his pulse against it and began counting with each beat.
 
“Yes. Yes—that’s me,” Dree heard his father’s voice rasp. “Please—”
 
Without warning, Dree felt fingers loop through his hair, gain a hold, and jerk his head up. The motion caused pain, and he yelped. Head now lifted, he saw his father, chin still half-covered with shaving cream, and gave a dry sob: “Abba!”
 
“But this is Dreogan Eleor, too, is it not?” the man asked, near his ear. Dree could not turn his head far enough to see who was speaking, his captor’s fingers still in his hair, directing, pulling. Aside from the momentary, initial glimpse, he had not even seen their faces.
 
“Please,” his father said tensely, hands stretching out as the man twisted the tip of the wand into the skin of Dree's neck. Dree trembled at the note of desperation in his father's voice, rendering it almost unrecognizable.  “Please – don't. He has nothing to do with… whatever you want.  Please, tell me what you want.”
 
“Come with us.”
 
And he must have. With the wand at his throat and in a flash of red, Dree was robbed of his senses. When he woke up upon the floor of their unit, the silence around him was choking and Dree, cheek against the tile, cried.[1]

1.	"I will pass through and strike down every firstborn, and I will bring judgment. I am the Lord. The blood [of the lamb] will be a sign for you on the houses where you are, and I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you." --Exodus 12: 12-13