Mirabel Annette Julian Jones celebrated her first Christmas deep in Underground Houston. Her parents wet a small blanket lightly letting her sip water through the thick cloth as a filter. She was growing stronger but her eyes had trouble developing here in the darkness. Her mother sang her old christmas songs this morning, 

“Silent Night, Holy Night,”Her father held her tight, the wounds on his shoulder still healing from the uprising. They now hid from retribution deep in the underbelly of the Houston underground. Four families had carved out a place they could protect should anyone vengeful come looking. But they were running low on food and would have to venture back up sometime.
Joseph, a small six year old, came up to Mirabel’s mother with a small stuffed animal, ragged and loved. Mirabel’s mother nodded and he brought it and placed it in tiny Mirabel’s hands. She gripped it with infant instinct and held on tight, the fur a tactile touch she did not know. She would have this bear years later, in her office as president, high on a cabinet shelf, a reminder of where she came from.

“Merry Christmas,” Joseph said as he skipped away.