Tick.
Because Ma never filed for it.
The answer is so suddenly and strikingly obvious that I feel foolish for even daring to hope. Ma works at an underground clinic. She obviously has no employer sponsoring her. If anything, she’s just doubled down on our outlaw status.
A numbness seeps into my skin that makes it hard to access my thoughts or outrage or anything else. It’s like a vacuum of air building in my head, making the office blur out of focus and filling my mind with a white noise that’s intensifying into a full-body buzzing, until I can’t stay here anymore.
If I do, I’ll have to process that after all these years of waiting, I’m never going to belong here.
I’m never going to go to school.
I’m never going to be rid of these stupid fucking sunglasses.
The realization snaps shackles I’ve placed on my body my whole life. Hide, be invisible, take up as little space as possible—share a small bed, in a small room, in a small apartment, in a small corner of the world, limited to a small routine and a small life.
I’ve always felt cramped because I’ve been crammed into an existence too small for me. That’s why the only friends I have are fictional. Why the only world I know is within El Retiro’s walls. Why the only time I feel free is in my dreams.
But today, my body has outgrown its constraints.
And whatever the consequences, I’m not going back.
I shove my sunglasses back on—not for Ma, but for me, to avoid stares—and storm out of the office, knocking someone over.
The teen girl gasps as she tumbles to the floor, her auburn hair fanning around her stunned face. For some reason, her frightened reaction infuriates me, so I glare back and do something I’ve never done before—I growl.
At first, I think I’m going to belch. But instead, this deep, sonorous sound comes out of my mouth that doesn’t sound human.
I’m mortified. My cheeks burn like they’re pressed to a hot stove, and for a moment the girl and I just stare at each other. Then, without apologizing or helping her up, I run.
I’m going so fast, everything is a blur. Julieta dives out of my way as I reach the door that leads into the beauty salon, and even though I hear my name being shouted, I keep going until I’ve burst onto the street.
This time, pedestrians have to dodge me. My feet are locked into a powerful rhythm, and I don’t know how to slow down. The run is a catharsis, and as tears stream down my face, I realize it’s the first time since racing home from Ariana’s pool party that I’ve let my body go.
Running awake is different from running in my dreams: weightier, harder, more thrilling. My body has changed from what it was just months ago, my muscles somehow stronger despite my lack of exercise. It’s like I’ve been transforming moon by moon, becoming something new, someone new … But what? And whom?
I’m crying hard enough that I can barely see, until I lose track of the blocks, and I don’t know where I am. I have no idea where my life goes from here.
I don’t know if things with Ma can ever get back to normal. Can I stay in hiding with her if it’s forever? And where will we go now?
I only stop moving when I run out of land. As my sneakers hit sand, the impact on my body is instant: My knees wobble from the exertion, my muscles sting, and my breaths come in tidal waves. I must have covered four or five miles. I hinge my hands on my thighs and bend my spine, as I wait for my heart to slow down.
The beach is packed. Parents with children splash in the ocean’s shallows, and all along the shore people are lying out or playing volleyball or eating food, everyone basking and baking in the sun’s rays.
But the warmth won’t penetrate my skin.
My damp shirt clings to me, and the roots of my hair are itchy with sweat. The world grew deafening overnight; as a symphony of brassy conversations and stringy seagulls and crashing waves blares in my ears, I stare off into the sparkly blue Atlantic, yearning for a home that’s as elusive as the horizon. And I’m tempted to slip into the sea’s womblike embrace and drown out all the noise.
I suck in a deep inhale of briny air to snap out of it.
For a moment, I consider what it would mean if my father’s family really found us. Ma’s right that we couldn’t stick around, waiting to be captured. Especially not if they hurt Perla just for being in their way.
But if I’m going to agree to run, then Ma needs to agree to file an asylum claim with the US government. I don’t want to hear her excuses that the accusation might tip off my dad’s people to my existence and our whereabouts—because if they’re already onto us, we have nothing to lose.
I should have researched this residency stuff for myself instead of trusting her to handle it. She’s obviously been keeping me in the dark for a reason.
The only thing I’m sure of anymore is I can’t go back to how things were. I’ve already spent too many years fast-forwarding through a series of identical days, self-medicating every full moon, living a lonely and friendless existence. But at least then I had hope. I can’t do this without it.
Stepping back onto the hard concrete of reality, I retrace my steps to Doña Rosa, only this time I’m not running. As I cut through the city blocks in a clipped and determined gait, something starts to unsettle me.
At first, I think it’s the calm hollowness emanating from my decision. Then I register how much the sidewalks have emptied. Earlier, they were swarming with foot traffic, and now, I could be one of the last people left in the city.
Like the street is playing dead.
My heart stalls, and I’m back with Ma under Perla’s bed. Waiting for agents to storm in and take us away.
I don’t know when I make the decision to run. All I know is I’m rocketing through the empty streets, moving faster than I’ve ever moved, each desperate second echoing in my head.
Tick.
I see the blue lights first.
Tick.
Flashing atop a black SUV.
Tick.
ICE is at Doña Rosa.
7
Agents in bulletproof vests are congregated in front of the salon, jamming the sidewalk. My heart rams my chest like something inside is trying to punch its way out.
I duck into a laundromat on the adjacent block. Flying by rows of identical machines, I spot a back door at the end of the space and push past it into a narrow alley lined with city dumpsters.
The stench of garbage baking in the heat makes my breathing shallow, and I feel tears of sweat trickling down my back. I tread toward Doña Rosa slowly, swallowing gulps of fresh air when I reach the end of the block. Then I sprint across the street, sticking to the alley, and scan the back exits for the one that belongs to the salon.
A door swings open, and I dive behind a grimy green dumpster, holding my breath.
After a few interminable seconds, I hear a man call out, “Clear!”
Closing my eyes in relief, I concentrate on my improved hearing, hoping to catch what’s going on inside. “Everyone’s rounded up, then,” I hear someone else say, his voice coming from deep within the salon.
Shit.
They have Ma.
My chest seizes, and I start to stand—
“The investigators are on their way to ask questions,” says a woman’s voice. “Then we’ll book them.”