Amy's father paced along the length of the kitchen with his lips pressed tightly together, his many chins quivering with anticipation. For the fifteenth time that day, he took out a brown pigskin hankerchief and dapped at a sweaty jowl.

The large, portly man made many obvious attempts not to look at the ticking clock. Most times he failed, catching a glimpse before tearing his eyes away again. His face would darken and he would look sick, stopping in the middle of his pacing so as to compose himself.

Amy stared in wonder. Her father was usually a jolly sack of fat, bouncing along and spreading cheer to all the world. To see him like this was... disquieting.

"Is something wrong, papa?", Amy asked incredulously.

The fat man stopped, frozen. His mouth opened for a second, like a drowning fish. He looked like he was about to faint. Then he reattached his jaw and smiled. It was not his best smile. His best smiles had an overabbundance of teeth and were usually followed by laughter. This one was not one of his best, but it was obvious that he was trying.

"Amy," he said, in that awkward, throaty voice of his. "Listen to me, sweetie. Papa might have to go away soon, okay? I won't be able to take care of you anymore. You'll be living with grandma and grandpa. You'll have to be brave, but everything will work out in the end."

He smiled again, looking at her with big blue eyes. It still wasn't one of his best. The tears ruined it.

She didn't understand. "Why? Did you do something bad? Is it because of me?"

He sat down on a dining chair, folding his hands. It was the same posture he took whenever she did something she was not supposed to do. Her eyes widened. "It is because of me, isn't it? You need to leave because I did something..."

"No. God, no," he grabbed one of her hands with a big meaty fist, squeezing it gently. "Please. Promise me that you'll never think that any of this is your fault. None of this is your fault."

"Then, why? Why do you have to go?" She could feel tears welling up. She blinked, a drop escaping down her cheek.

"I did something bad. Very bad. I broke the law a long time ago and now it's catching up to me," he paused, seemily deep in thought. "Amy? Always... Always remember to listen to your teachers. Dot your 'i's and cross your 't's and all that."

He chuckled. Amy felt her fear and confusion quickly mix with anger. "You're not going to tell me? Don't I deserve to know?" She pulled her hand out of her father's.

"No. I can't," he said. "You'll be happy with your grandparents. Just try to forget about me, Amy."

She wanted to say something else, to show him a piece of her mind. But just then the door bell rang.

"Wait here," he told her.

"Papa," she felt a chill pass up her spine. "Who's at the door?"

The man that he invited into his home wore a black uniform with a red band on his right arm. It showed a stylised 'G' displayed on a white circle.

"Scott Prescott, is it?", he asked. The man was not quite unlike a jackal. His smile would've been something approaching amiable if it were on someone else's face. As it was, the officer held himself in a way that seemed wolvish. "How many 't's on Prescott? Two? It's very important for my report."

Amy's father simply nodded, posture uncharacterisitically straight. "Yes."

The officer seemed to notice Amy for the first time. "Ah! Is this your daughter? They told me you had a daughter."

He bent down and offered a hand. Amy simply stared at it. Who was this strange man? Was he a police officer?

She felt her father put a hand on her shoulder. She shook the officer's hand, albeit reluctantly. The officer smiled in the way that adults always smiled when met with children.

"I am Colonel Doloran of the Grammar Police. It is a pleasure to make your acquietance, Ms. Amy Prescott. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to borrow your father for a while. We have a lot to talk about," he gestured to the two similarly uniformed men that had followed him into the room. "Take her away."

"You won't hurt her, right?", she heard her father exclaim.

"I'd worry less about her and more about yourself if I were you," replied the officer. "Let's talk about this photo here."

That was when the men began gently prodding her out of the room and the voices of her father and the colonel faded.

Amy couldn't get a clear glimpse through the bodies of the two guards that had pushed her out of her own home, but if she did she would've seen the photo that the colonel showed her father. It was a photo of a younger and less corpulent version of him, half-naked with his shirt off. On his back was tatooed the words, 'No Ragrets'.

Her father simply nodded with downcast eyes. No ragrets, indeed.

Inside the shiny black grammar police cruiser, Amy heard a gunshot.