He called it a commune, a brotherhood, but there was nothing fraternal about our life here.

The house was fully furbished by the time we arrived. He had plenty of time to prepare our rooms for us. Strangely enough, he hadn't found the time to buy proper farm equipment or actually learn how to live off the land. He hadn't even written up a basic set of house rules. He didn't care, and I mistook that for composure.

"Failure isn't fatal," he would say after the latest blowup over broken tools or cleanup duty. "This is a setback for all of us, but we'll learn. We'll do better."

Everyone learned a lot in those days. We learned not to question him or point out his mistakes, only fix them quietly when he wasn't paying attention. He learned how to use food and love to keep people in line. He saw all of us as collections of faulty parts to be fashioned into useful components in his design, and we were all so easily replaced.

He soon dropped his unwritten three-strikes rule. Another eager young idealist was always available to move in. Forgetting a friend is painful but I got used to the sting quickly. It hurt less than his wrath.

He'd never wanted brothers. Only serfs and subjects. But by the time I realized that, it was already too late.