The Crocodile God

Part 2.

Part 2.

They do not sleep that night; Mirasol doesn't cry for much longer, but in her sadness she latches on to Haik's torso while the shadows ebb like waves. He must be used to reactions like hers, because he curls up around her in the dark.

The hospital calls her at eight, when she's only gotten four hours of sleep, and lets her know there's a nurse coming by for Haik in the evening.

"Really?" She wonders. "We just saw the doctor, though."

"We're just making sure everything's okay," the nurse says. "Sometimes people don't notice big problems for a good week or two, and it's always good to check up on him."

"I... I guess that makes sense," she says, but something tugs at her nerves.

When Mirasol mentions it to Haik at breakfast, he shakes his head.

"That's not a nurse." He grabs a few jars from the cupboard and the loaf of bread. "They'll be here in a couple hours. Don't open the door before you get the warrant. It'll just be for arrest, so don't let them search your house. If they play nice, that's great, but if they don't play nice, just yell my name and at least they'll go viral for trying to beat up a little girl."

"What are you--" She follows him into her room, where he's packing a few outfits. He folds up the blanket from the couch and drapes it over a shoulder, then doubles back to the linen closet for a second one. "Haik, where are you going?!"

"Down there." He points to the floor.

"The cellar?" She says. "It's full of old stuff and I barely clean it."

"Exactly."

She follows him to the door in the grass, where he lifts it with the rusted chain as if it's nothing.

---

ICE officers arrive two hours later, with a fairly restrained number of three squad cars. They slip the warrant through the mail slot on her request; it's for Haik's arrest, but not searching. When she lets them in, they explain that the hospital hasn't found anything about Haik in Hawaii or Australia like he said, and they've seen no records about his tattoos.

"They're traditional tattoos," she tells them. "He might not have gotten any formal receipts, and he didn't tell me the artist's name."

"It's not your fault for taking him to the hospital," one of the officers says gently. "That's no problem. It's just that we have to--"

"Deport him," she finishes, and they're a little flustered by her bluntness. "Well, good luck with that. He left already."

"Fuck."

"Why is that a problem?" She needles them. "The illegal immigrant is gone, so your job's done."

"It's not just leaving," he explains, but his partner sighs.

"Did he say anything about where he was going? If he was coming back?"

"He knew you were coming," she points out. "He started packing the second I told him about the weird-ass hospital visit. He's probably in San Francisco or Richmond by now, if he stole ten dollars for BART."

"Are you hiding him?"

"Your warrant is only for arrest," she reminds them. She keeps calm, but in the back of her head she wonders how he knew all of this. And even he only said they might play nice...

"Fuck." The first officer shoves back his chair. "Thanks for cooperating, ma'am."

And they leave.