Lachlan had stood in lines before.
Military lines. Processing lines. Lines where someone with a clipboard decided whether you slept alone or with 50 other men, whether you were put on latrine duty or get the night off. He understood the rhythm of them, the quiet rules that were never spoken out loud.
Clipboards were the perfect way that people learned very quickly what not to say.
But even with all his experience, this line felt worse.
It wasn't chaotic, and that was the problem. Chaos meant mistakes, and mistakes meant opportunity. This was controlled, orderly, and slow in a way that pressed on the back of his skull the longer they stood in it.
The first barricade came into full view after what felt like hours under and unforgiving sun.
Two sawhorse barriers sat across the road, angled just enough to funnel people into a single-file approach. Sandbags had been stacked behind them with care, not because they needed the cover, but because it sent a message.
