It's been 3 years since the war ended and we're still homeless.

The war ended three years ago.<br><br>Or so they claimed.<br><br>I stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by five other people. No, not people. Survivors. My family. My brothers and sisters. The only ones left from a long line of people I used to call my loved ones.<br><br>I look around the room. It's small. There's a bunk bed in the corner, old and falling apart. On the bottom bunk is a young girl, no more than ten. She's crying, as she usually does. The bunk above her is where the oldest member of our family group sleeps. He's sixteen, and he watches over us with the mannerisms of a parent. He's been doing it since the war started.<br><br>In the centre of the room is a table. It's old, and there are stains all over the surface. The only place where they've been wiped away is where a small girl no older than seven works on a piece of paper. She draws and colours in the squares, and she never looks up.<br><br>Under the table is the last of us. A young boy, who can't be more than five. He's our youngest member, and he's the most energetic. Even now, as the grownups hold a meeting, he's still trying to play. He has the tablecloth clutched in his fist, and it's dragging along the ground as he uses it as a pretend cape.<br><br>We've been lucky, all of us. We were together when it happened. We went through the struggle in a group. We have each other. The man in the corner, on the other side from the bunk bed, is the oldest member of our extended family. He's in his early sixties. There's a line of wrinkles from his forehead to the bridge of his nose, and he has a bushy white beard that he refuses to cut. He's cold and calculating, with a stern face and a booming voice.<br><br>To his right is a woman. She's around the same age, and she has a long head of grey hair. She's a very young sixty, in my opinion. She's softer than him, with a warm hug and a gentle smile.<br><br>To her right is me. I'm twenty-four, the oldest member of the six of us. I'm a little shorter than average, with long orange hair. I'm lean, but I'm strong. I have to be. My back hurts, and I have scars from the war.<br><br>I look around the room, at the people in it. My family. I don't know how it came to this. I have no idea what could have driven people to do this. We're all humans, after all. I never thought I'd be sitting in a dingy little room in a dingy little house on the outskirts of the city. I never thought I'd be planning an armed robbery.<br><br>''It's called the New World Bank,'' the woman said. ''And it's in the city. We have a map of the building. We know the layout. We know where the alarms are, and where the guards are. We have blueprints of the entire building. We know exactly what we're doing.''<br><br>''What's the point?'' the man asks, his voice deep. ''What do we plan to get from there? They have guns. The government will do anything to protect it. What can we get from there that can help us?''<br><br>''Money,'' the woman said. ''And the truth. There are answers in that place. About what happened. About how we got here. And there are people who might be able to help us get them.''<br><br>''What,'' I ask, ''makes you think they'll help us? We're no one. We're homeless. We're nobodies. Why would they care?''<br><br>''Because,'' she said, ''there's a man on the inside. His name is Thomas. He's a friend of a friend. He'll help us in any way he can, and in the same way that we have blueprints of the bank, he has blueprints of the government building. If we get to the bank, we can get to the government building. And if we get there, we can change this.''<br><br>''This,'' the man said, ''is a lost cause. But you're right,'' he said, turning to the woman. ''It's worth a shot. It might not work. But at the very least, we'll know we tried.''<br><br>''Did they ever tell you why?'' I asked the man.<br><br>He looked at me, before turning away.<br><br>''No,'' he said. ''No, they never did.''