"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez!" my mom announces when they open the mustard-colored door.
"Welcome to our home!" Mrs. Hernandez says with a grin showing her teeth. She reaches out and grabs my mom, pulling her in for a hug, holding her close for a few extra seconds. These two seem so loving and happy. They never let their smiles slip from their faces. They seem genuinely interested in us. Their excitement is infectious... and I like it.
"We were not expecting four, or we would have made dinner for six! We only made enough for three of us." Mr. Hernandez tells us. He looks concerned with the shortage of food.
"Oh, I'm not hungry," Nasom says.
"Yes you are! I'll make more!" Mrs. Hernandez says as she shuffles away from the door and into the kitchen.
"Come in! Come in!"
"Thank you," my mom says to Mr. Hernandez, "I know it's unexpected but I hope it's okay. This is my son, Vince. And this is his friend Nasom. And this pretty girl is...Ken, right?"
"Kennedy Faye." She smiles. "Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for opening your home for us!"
"No, no. Thank you for coming to us! We're so happy to see these young faces! Take a seat! Take a seat!"
We file into the warm living room. We sit on the peach colored furniture. Kennedy looking at me, I can tell she feels a little awkward; she keeps rubbing her neck. I'm the only one in the house she really knows.
I can hear the sweet couple in the kitchen opening cabinets and getting additional pans out. Mr. Hernandez pokes his head out from the archway every five minutes telling us the tasty spices he's using. I know this meal is going to be a great one. I can smell the spices. They're not only seasoning the food, but also the air.
I look at my mom. She straightens her shirt. She knows I want to ask her something, and it's not going to be easy. It's not going to be easy, but I want to know. And I'm sure Kennedy does, too.
"Mom, what happened to Rosemary?"
"Rose...Rose didn't make it."
Kennedy nods her head. Just as she expected.
"What happened?"
"Do not think it's your fault...because it's not."
My fault. Oh, no.
"After our talk through the fence, they ran over to me. I was walking back to my table for work. They're rough. They're mean. They almost knocked me down when they bumped shoulders with me." My mom grabs her shoulder, rubbing it as if it had just happened. "They started questioning people. Frantically. Shoving barrels of guns in their faces. This middle-aged man didn't want to say anything. They dragged him away from his table like he weighed only twenty pounds, like he was nothing. They threw him in the mud and went on to the next person. Rose was the next person."
Mr. Hernandez sticks his neck out from the kitchen, "Only just a few more minutes before dinner. You all are going to love it. Love it." He vanishes just as quickly as he appeared.
"Anyways, they started asking her questions like about what was going on. Then, she was the real Rose. The real Rose that nobody saw. She was my friend. She said that you were her son. She took all the blame. They killed Rose and turned her into an example. Rose saved my life." My mom breaks the sentence off and moves her hair behind her ear.
"My gosh," Nasom says, covering his mouth.
"Rose saved you," I say. It lingers in the air, everyone looking in their own directions.
Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez storm out of the kitchen with excitement.
"Who's ready for some food!?" Mrs. Hernandez says, rapidly clapping her hands.
__________
After dinner, Mr. Hernandez turns on the television in the living room. It's running The Vista's #1 news programming.
Of course, there is political 'expert' after the other coming onto the screen. In The Vista, we don't have divided political parties like most countries. Sure, there are all kinds of people with opposing views, but everyone tries to remain understanding. There are a few extremists but they would never make it into the news. We peacefully debate issues and it's helped out our country in tremendous ways... until now. It seems like those days of political peace are over.
Two men wearing suits are having a heated discussion at the news desk over the latest obstacle: the sleeper zone refugees.
The man on the left keeps saying the refugees—that would be me—should be monitored and watched. "Put them in a camp, better yet, send them off somewhere. Not here in The Vista," he says.
Put us in a camp? Send us off somewhere? Half of us just broke out of a camp. You can't do that!
The man on the screen keeps demanding his point gets across, "They will hurt our country. How do we know whom we're bringing into The Vista? We don't. We're letting those terrorists into this place. Infecting our people. They're going to attack again. They will!" His face turning red with anger.
The other man at the table fighting right back, not as harsh, but obviously passionate about his beliefs.
"These people barely survived. The refugees are already suffering enough. Our government is ready for anything, sir. They are! We have some of the best public safety—"
The other man cuts him off, "oh, obviously. Where was this public safety when they ambushed them?" he makes quotations in the air with his fingers when he says 'public safety'.
"They ambushed the small communities. The towns and houses in the middle of nowhere! They knew it would take too long to get to them. That's why they spread out to all those places! They took out small communities then fought together towards each other making the sleeper zone... Now back to what I was saying. We are safe. First of all, the terrorists here are not willing to disguise themselves. They want to be known. They want to recruit. And by the way... this is our homeland. Those refugees you think are terrorists are our people." The man is getting louder. "They are still our people! This country has dealt with this before! This isn't just your home. This isn't your country. It's their country. It's our country! So the next time you call the refugees 'those terrorists', know whom you're talking about. They want safety. They want their home back." The other man is silent and doesn't know how to respond. He finally finishes his evocative speech. "So stop being scared and worrying about your agenda. Start being a human. Start saving lives."
The show goes to a commercial break and I look around. All of us circled around the television screen. It applies to all of us. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez because they're helping us. It applies to the rest of us because we've been there. We've had to fight to live. We were fighting for life... not to be ushered away.
It's a strange feeling for all of us. We haven't seen our country get into it like that on TV. What does this mean for us? This is obviously going to affect our lives—one way or another.
The commercial break ends and the news anchor reads off the latest headlines. She sits up straight and looks into the camera.
"The officials are working hard to debate on what is right for our country. Here's what's going on: The Vista is fighting back against the terrorists. The zone is shrinking and they are on the defense. We're working our way in and saving more and more people. With this historic event, comes several political issues that must be addressed. The most popular discussions now are: privacy and information sharing and what to do about refugees..." the news anchor puts her hand to her ear. Her producer is telling her something. She lowers her hand as a new red bulletin runs across the bottom of the screen.
"This just in, we have breaking news. The Vista has called for a public vote on the two issues. Tomorrow, from noon to 9PM, the polls will be opened. The two issues presented will be those previously stated."
Mr. Hernandez turns off the television and sinks into his chair. He pinches the top of his nose. "I've been following the latest on this, but it hasn't ever got out of hand like that."
"Who can vote?" Nasom asks.
"Citizens of The Vista who are 18 years or older," Mr. Hernandez says with his confident, unmoving voice. "I'll be voting."
__________
"So what does that mean for us?" Kennedy asks me as we sit with Nasom on the front porch watching the sun go down.
"I guess it means we wait."
"Wait for what?" Nasom asks, tilting his chair back against the brick.
"We wait to see if the country wants us put away. We should know by tomorrow night..."