There is a kind of obedience that wears no marks. No rope burns. No bruises. No bite of leather against the back. It is not paraded on a stage, nor photographed in the aftermath. It walks down aisles in supermarkets. It sits through meetings. It folds laundry. It smiles at the postman. It cooks dinner. All while carrying a secret weight inside. This is not metaphor. It is the plug.
