Miguel squirmed in his seat, shoulders burning and hands numb. He switched between sitting forward, which strained the muscles in his lower back, and leaning back against the seat, which shot needles of pain into his wrists and shoulders. He found that resting against the door offered some semblance of comfort.
The SUV turned onto an exit ramp that led to one of the towns that had begun popping up on the landscape. Miguel felt better to be in the midst of civilization, not tucked away in some dark, quiet corner of the country like a dirty secret.
"El Paso is less than three hours away," Strickland said. "We're getting gas and taking a bathroom break. I'll move your cuffs to the front when we stop."
Buchanan pulled into a gas station and parked at one of the pumps. He turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat with a great sigh. The keys rattled in his hand when he pulled them from the ignition, as if tempting Miguel to take them. Buchanan nodded to Strickland, who exited the SUV and began his purchase at the pump. The sound of gasoline flowing into the tank furthered Miguel's urge to use the bathroom and he was relieved when Strickland opened his door.
"Lean forward, feet flat, and press your head against the seat. I'll undo one side and then you put your hands on the seat in front of you. Once the cuffs are back on you can lean back. Got it?"
Miguel nodded and complied, enjoying the brief moment of relaxation when his arms could move in an unrestricted fashion. "Thanks," he said.
Strickland ignored the gratitude and closed the door. He waited for the tank to fill and then returned the hose to the pump. He then opened Miguel's door again.
"The bathroom is outside the gas station," Strickland said. "I'll take you to it so you can take a leak. Step out and keep your hands in front of you. Walk slowly and no sudden movements."
Miguel slid out of the SUV and walked towards the gas station, Strickland shadowing his steps. He saw the sign for the bathroom and moved in that direction, walking with his head down as he passed some of the gas station patrons.
Miguel pushed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, instantly gagging from the acrid stench of stale urine. The walls and floor were caked in filth, and the lone fluorescent tube in the ceiling flickered in an offbeat rhythm.
There were three urinals and one stall with a door that was attached solely by the bottom hinge. Miguel stepped up to the first urinal and nearly threw up. Someone had decided that a urinal served the same function as a toilet, unaware or unconcerned that they had clogged the lining.
Miguel went to the second urinal, which someone, somehow, had managed to shatter the porcelain. He moved to the third, and found that this one was at least in one piece. He then went about the awkward business of using the bathroom while handcuffed and under supervision.
Miguel finished as quick as his bladder allowed and then washed his hands. He and Strickland left the bathroom and waited for Buchanan to return from inside the gas station. The two agents took turns watching Miguel so the other could use the bathroom and then they left the station.
"This won't be like the other places you've been to," Buchanan said.
"What do you mean?" Miguel said.
"It's a government processing center, one of the few that they didn't get turned over to us."
Miguel was confused and his concern mounted. "Why didn't you just take me back to the same place as before?"
"Because you compromised the last location," Strickland said. "We've wasted enough resources trying to find you and your friends. We're not taking you back so you can have another go at it. The folks in El Paso will have you over the border in no time."
I guess that makes sense, Miguel thought. They didn't want to risk him stirring up more trouble at the camp. "So what are you going to tell people back at the camp?"
"We don't need to tell them anything," Buchanan said sharply. "You don't matter, remember that. You're just another number in the system, and I seriously doubt any of those pieces of shit will even notice you're gone."
"We'll probably tell them you were killed by wild animals," Strickland said. "That, and your friend getting shot, should keep any other bad hombres from trying to hop the fence. A good deterrent for any more escapes."
"What happened to the others?" Miguel said. "What happened to Gio?"
"We thought we had the other two but it was a bad lead," said Strickland. "It still led us to you though. The prick that got shot bled out back at camp. Like I said, a good deterrent."
Poor Gio. Miguel couldn't believe True Patriot had allowed that to happen. His country, his home, was becoming unrecognizable. Aren't we supposed to be the good guys. Do the good guys kill a man to scare people into behaving the way they want? We've invaded countries that acted like this.
Miguel cleared his throat. "Did you let him die to make an example? Was killing a man supposed to be some kind of object lesson. You guys trying to show off how big and strong you are, killing people who are tired, scared, and can't defend themselves?"
"It's all part of the natural order of things," Strickland said. "People die all the time. Sometimes they deserve it, sometimes they don't. Your friend broke the law and he paid a consequence. We have to follow the law or we lose any sense of security."
"Gio was a veteran," Miguel said. "He didn't deserve to die like that."
"Tough shit," said Buchanan. "So was Lee Harvey Oswald. You don't see no one crying over him now."
Miguel didn't respond and remained silent. He hoped Héctor and Antonio were okay and he wondered if Gio had any family. He watched signs of civilization increase, indicating that he was nearing his destination. There were used car dealerships, fast food restaurants, and mom and pop shops with outdated decor.
The SUV crossed an intersection and then Miguel saw an iron fence with brick trim that enclosed a massive parking lot. The white trucks and camouflaged ATVs that littered the lot told Miguel that they had arrived. He recognized the vehicles from TV, the ones that the Border Patrol used along as they searched for immigrants. They were the latest models of pick up and ATVs, prompting Miguel to wonder how much had been spent, and as Emma had said, who had benefited from the purchase?
They turned into the complex, stopping at a gate manned by a solitary guard. Buchanan rolled down his window, letting in a hot draft of dusty air inside, and waved a badge in front of a fob reader. The gate opened with a click and the SUV rolled past the waving guard.
This area beyond the gate was littered with several small offices and one large building in the back that had the ominous feel of a prison. The bare concrete skin was enclosed by a chain link skin and the only noticeable feature on the building was the entrance; no windows and no other doors. They parked in an empty space and Buchanan turned off the engine.
"Stay put until we tell you to move," he said without turning around.
Don't move and we won't hurt you. Then we'll use our computers to pass judgement on you for not having the right papers. After that we'll force you to leave the only home you've ever known and make you live somewhere that you can't even remember. Miguel understood perfectly.
Miguel's skin crawled when Stickland opened the door and a rush of hot air swept over him. It wasn't the heavy, muggy air that he was used to back home, the air here was dry, it felt dead to him.
The two agents marched Miguel to the entrance of the building, flanked by a large Texan and American flag that were hoisted high on poles. The seal of Homeland Security hung over the door and sent a shiver through Miguel. He wondered if this is what political prisoners experienced when being taken to the headquarters of the secret police.
Strickland opened the door and Buchanan pushed Miguel inside. The spartan foyer was adorned in gray tiles and off-white walls. There was a lone, wooden desk that sat in the center of the room, placed in front of a metal door that had safety glass in the center. There were two windows on either side of the door, also fitted with safety glass, through which Miguel could see handcuffed men and three ICE agents.
The desk in the foyer was manned by a heavyset woman wearing the green uniform of an ICE agent. She was staring blankly at a computer screen and adjusting her hair that was pulled up in a bun. The woman stopped when she saw the trio enter "You the boys that called in about that transfer?" Her voice was nasally and had that drawl that Miguel was still getting used to.
"Yes, ma'm," Buchanan said. "His info was sent ahead so he's all yours, just need to process him."
Strickland pushed Miguel forward and another agent, that Miguel hadn't even seen enter the room, flanked him and placed an arm on his shoulder. The woman hit a few keys on her keyboard and nodded. "I'd say ya'll are sloppy but I won't complain about results." She looked up to the agent that was holding Miguel. "You can take him in."
The agent pushed Miguel forward and stopped at the metal door. There was a buzz and the door opened. The agent prompted Miguel forward and then stopped him in front of a body scanner. Just like going to the airport, Miguel thought.
"Stay here," the man said." He went around Miguel and stood to the side of the scanner. "Step inside and hold your arms above your head."
Miguel followed the man's instructions, examining the room as he waited for his body to be checked for weapons or drugs. All of the agents looked Hispanic, a cruel irony that stung him deep. But why not? What better way to deal with the "undesirables" than to have their own kind deal with them? What's the word, untermensch?
This room was the same off-white that he had seen when he had entered the building. There were plastic benches that snaked along the inside of the room but the walls were left bare, save for the three doors. There was the door he had come through and two others that were ominously windowless and left Miguel to wonder what lay behind. He guessed one might be holding cells or storage and the other went to the main jail. Or one goes to the gas chamber and the other to some ovens.
"You're clear," the agent said. "Go grab a seat."
Miguel sat down on the bench, away from the other detainees, and waited. The processing was just like at the other places he had been at, minus the fact that the people working here seemed to be competent. His fingerprints were scanned and then he was taken through one of the windowless doors to receive a blue uniform with orange Crocs. As he held the ugly, rubber shoes in hand, he was glad that Laila and Zed couldn't see him now. He had always made fun of the way Crocs looked and now they would be the last thing he would wear in the country.
Other men entered the room with him and were instructed to change after being given the same uniform and shoes. Miguel had to admit that the shoes were comfortable, even if they did look totally stupid. He and his fellow detainees were then taken through the other mystery door and into the main detention area. They stopped in a room with rows of telephones, where they were allowed to make a single call. Two agents guarded the men in line while a third monitored the calls.
That's one corn-fed Texas boy, Miguel thought as he examined the agent monitoring calls. The man was easily 6'2" and probably weighed close to two-fifty; likely a failed NFL candidate who released his need for power in an ICE facility.
"Instructions to make a phone call are on the phones. In English and español. Say what you need but make sure you read the card if you need instructions for whoever is picking you up in Juarez. We've tried to streamline this process, with so many of you, so don't mess it up."
Daniela answered his call after the first ring.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Mom ," he sighed. "It's me."
"Miguel! Laila called us and told us what's happening." Her voice was light and airy with excitement, it broke his heart to take that hope from her. "Where are you?"
Miguel hunched over the table where the phone was, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Uh, mom. They found me and I'm at an immigration jail in El Paso."
The line was silent and then she spoke. "Miguel," her voice was flat and void of emotion. "I'll call my cousins to let them know." Her voice cracked as she continued. "You're going to be staying with them until we can get you home."
Miguel could hear in his mother's breathing that she was seconds away from breaking down. His eyes burned, his vision blurred, and his throat grew tight as he fought against the tears. He tried to console himself by thinking that he would be free the next time they spoke. Far from home but free.
"Thanks, mom."
'They live in Juarez, near Las Misiones. Pero, listen, Miguel, it's okay where they live so don't worry."
"I'm not worried, mom," he said. He was terrified. Everything he knew about Juarez came from the movies and news reports about cartels.
"Miguel, Zach stopped by to see us the other day."
"What did he want?" Miguel thought of the last time he had spoken to Zach and how disappointed he had been in his friend.
"He quit the church and joined some nonprofit down in Texas."
"Huh. Do you know the name of it?"
"ICAN. They help immigrants figure out how to live here, Kenzie works with them."
"How did he get involved in that?" Miguel couldn't imagine Zach doing anything except being a pastor. The guy wasn't exactly spontaneous and his skillset was somewhat limited.
"I guess a friend of his from college started the organization. Zach told her he was quitting the church and she invited him to join."
"He just packed up and left?"
"Basically. A lot of people at church weren't happy about him leaving, at least not for the reasons he gave. Mrs.Clingson said that he's gone liberal and will get himself arrested at some protest organized by the Democrats. When I told her what happened to you, she just said that the President is trying to do God's will and that whatever happens is for the best."
Miguel rolled his eyes and then remembered that his mom couldn't see him. What was so wrong with the country that this is someone's idea of fixing it? "What did you say to that?"
Daniela laughed, the sound that Sergio liked to refer to as her old "Chola laugh." "I told her that she was acting very un-Christian... in a very un-Christian way." Daniela was not someone to mess with, and in keeping with Latina tradition, was fiercely protective of her family.
The ICE agent tapped Miguel on the shoulder and indicated that he had about a minute left on his call.
"Mom, can I talk to dad? I don't have much time left."
"Yeah, he's right here."
"I love you," MIguel said in a tight voice.
"I love you too," his mother whispered.
"Miguel," Sergio's voice sounded faint over the phone. "I am so sorry. If we had known this could happen we would have fought the lawyers harder, we would have figured something out." He sucked in a sharp breath, no other words escaped his mouth.
It was one thing for Miguel to be told that he wasn't welcomed in his home any longer, it was another thing for his parents to think that it was their fault. He was further wounded by hearing his father on the verge of tears.
"You did your best, dad," Miguel said with tears streaming down his face. He didn't care how he looked as he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "No one thought something like this could happen, at least not here. It's not your fault and it's not mom's fault."
The phone beeped the ten second warning.
"I love you, Miguel," Sergio said.
"I love you, too,'' Miguel said, and then the call ended.
Miguel sat in the chair, deflated; shoulders slumped and head down, joining the other men in the room who had finished their calls and were now smothered by silence. An idea came to him out of this desperation and despair. He didn't care how reckless it was or what punishment he might receive. He dialed another number and hoped his call was answered.
"This is Stephens."
"Stephens, it's Miguel," he blurted into the phone, knowing that he needed to be quick. "They found out I'm not a minor so they sent me to a bunch of places and now I'm in El Paso. I get deported tomorrow. Listen, man. These camps aren't safe. I saw one kid die and there were other kids getting molested by the guards, and-"
Strong hands gripped Miguel's wrist and yanked the phone from his face, slamming it onto the receiver.
"Calls are over," the guard said, his dark eyes flashing at Miguel's impudence. He pointed with a stubby finger for Miguel to line up with the rest of the men. "Go."
Miguel joined the men and then the prisoners followed the guard to a door marked "Block A." They stopped and waited for the buzz of the disengaging lock, and then proceeded through the gates. Miguel felt insanity nipping at his heels, the hallway glowing with fluorescent lights that gleamed off of white walls. He hoped the whole place wasn't painted like this.
The men passed through several more locked gates before entering a common area that was filled with metal bunk beds. Miguel's stomach sank at the sight of the sickly lights illuminating the white walls. Just like a hospital, he thought. He hated hospitals; how they looked, how they smelled, how they felt. This was even worse, it was like a psych ward that was designed to make him lose his mind.
An ICE agent approached, hands stuffed into the front of his vest."My name is agent Franco, I run point for sleeping arrangements. Find an empty bed, you'll know it's empty 'cause there'll be a spare uniform on it. Escuchen," he said, snapping his fingers. "Don't be an asshole by taking someone else's stuff. That kind of thing doesn't go over well in here."
"¿Cuando comemos?" One of the prisoners asked.
"I haven't eaten since this morning," another man complained.
Franco checked his smartwatch and looked up at the ceiling in thought. "Dinner is in two hours, showers are three hours after that. You guys missed rec time but that doesn't really matter now."
A man standing next to Miguel, who smelled of tobacco and sweat, snorted. "What are we supposed to do until dinner?"
The agent shrugged. "There's some TVs," he said pointing to the screens mounted high up on the wall. "There's a deck of cards around here somewhere or you can try to sleep. Talk, whatever, just don't cause trouble, por favor." When no one responded he put his dark, meaty arms to his hips. "¿Entienden?" The men all muttered their affirmation and the agent went to stand against the wall near one of the TVs.
Miguel claimed a bed on the right side of the room, one with neighbors who didn't look like they would try to shank him in the middle of the night. One bunk was occupied by two elderly men with tufts of white hair and stubble. Both had bronze skin that was worn and cracked from years of hard labor in the sun. The man on the top bunk was motionless save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The man laying on the bottom bunk stared blankly into the bed above him and muttered something to himself.
The sheets and pillow in the bottom bunk on the other side of Miguel had been left scattered about by the bed's occupant. There was a middle-aged man in the top bunk, his skin creased and wrinkled like old leather, His squarish face crowned by salt and pepper hair. He was propped up on an elbow, watching the TVs that were across the room with wandering interest. He rolled lazily to his side and examined Miguel. "¿Qué más?"
Miguel looked up from adjusting his pillow. "What?"
The man laughed. "Pinche gringo," he muttered and turned his attention back to the TV.
"Come on," Miguel said, thumping his fist into his pillow. "Don't be like that." He sifted through his memory to see if he could recall any of his family using that phrase but the bank was empty. He sighed. "What did you say?"
The man peered down from his bed at Miguel as if he were an annoying child that was interrupting some important quiet time. "Don't worry about it."
"Did I do something?"
"Where are you from?"
"I guess originally from Mexico."
"Really? You look like a gringo to me. You look like one, you talk like one, you even act like one."
Miguel scowled. Okay, Boomer. "Just because I talk or act a certain way I'm a gringo?"
"¡No seas ganso!" the man muttered. "Even the way you say gringo makes you sound like one," he laughed. "¿Cómo te llamas?" The man's condescending tone irked Miguel to no end. "¿Eres americano?"
"Miguel. And yeah, I'm from here."
The man laughed and shook his head, "Then why are you here?"
Miguel ignored the question and went back to examining his new bed. The older man laughed at him and said something that Miguel didn't catch. I don't need this, Miguel thought and stormed away to one of the TVs.
The screens turned out to be a cruel joke; FOX News was on. The anchor was discussing the success of the President's immigration crackdown, calling it the "greatest show of national sovereignty" in the country's history. The network proudly displayed scenes of ICE agents conducting raids and arresting undocumented immigrants at their homes, schools, and even hospitals. There was also some footage of deportations and agents at the border; the detention camps were conveniently left out.
"...the Justice Department is overstepping their boundaries here," the anchor, Sebastain Dooley, said. "They told the President that he had their full support. Now we have judges that are scrambling to overturn this executive order and put our country at risk. No other president has been under this kind of scrutiny and it's disgusting, so many of us have lost what it means to be a patriot."
One of the co-hosts, Bryce Kilgrave, nodded his head emphatically. "If the executive order is allowed to continue, I think we can see some real turnaround in our country. People laughed when the President made changes to visa law and now we've had a dip in crime, in drugs, in murders, in rapes. People thought that was 'racist,'" he said laughing, "but it worked and now we're safer thanks to the President's tremendous success. These deportations are the most humane way to return people to where they belong."
"And it lessens the burdens of hard-working Americans that pay their taxes," Dooley said. "The government contracted this relocation effort to a private company that's located in the States and therefore has created thousands of jobs. This also means that our tax dollars can go into things like helping veterans and our military."
The scene switched to the outside of a building that looked a lot like that one Miguel was at now. Another scene changed and the camera began moving along a row of deportees that stood in line to be examined by a doctor. "Rather than create another line item," Dooley said, "the President has found a way to use other funds from immigration to contract out this work. I mean, look at this, they get medical attention on their way back to their home countries. What other nation would do that for illegal immigrants?"
"And you have to look at the national support," the third co-host, Amelia Edgars, said. "We're seeing a lot of cooperation with ICE and immigration officials. Schools, businesses, hospitals, and even churches are cooperating with ICE to help locate illegal immigrants."
"Exactly," Dooley said. "The places that aren't cooperating are places that have been infiltrated by the Left. You have a bunch of liberal yahoos who are honestly just traitors to this country, and in the case of defiant churches, are traitors to their faith."
"All we can do in cases like that is pray that people have their eyes opened," Edgars said. "Pray that the Left gets put in their place and that the President stays strong."
"I think we all know that the President is a resilient man," Kilgrave said.
"Something we can all be thankful for," Dooley said. "And we have a special treat for our viewers. We'll be taking a phone call with the President later today, so stay tuned for that."
Miguel turned his back on the TV and explored more of the common area. The majority of the men were trying to catch some sleep while the rest were split between watching the TVs and having conversations in scattered cliques. There was an unoccupied folding table in one corner of the room, several card decks spread across the surface.
Miguel sat down at the table and arrayed the cards to play a game of Devil's grip. He had learned the game the first time he had gone to therapy and had used it several times to help himself decompress. As he spread out the cards he realized that he didn't feel anything, not even his anxiety, which meant that his current cognitive roommate was depression.
Miguel grew bored after three games and switched to building card houses. Twice, the structure collapsed when he reached the second level and he almost considered switching to just the use of one deck. Miguel reached his third attempt and sat back with great satisfaction after placing the final card. He was in the midst of admiring his work when an announcement for shower time came.
Miguel returned to his bunk and swiped the bundle of clean clothes that were crumpled in a pile at the foot of his bed. The men were lined up and broken into groups, each group assigned an ICE agent escort.
"Dirty uniforms go in the white baskets that are inside the locker room," said the agent in charge of Miguel's group. He wore a bulletproof vest over his green uniform, with zip ties hanging from webbing. A pair of tactical sunglasses were perched on the tanned skin of his forehead, and he wore olive green gloves that were reinforced at the knuckles of his enormous hands. His sleeveless uniform proudly displayed beefy arms canvassed in tattoos. "Quick showers and then we'll head to the mess for dinner. The quicker you clean, the quicker you eat."
Miguel stood under a shower head minutes later, hot water streaming down his body as he self-consciously washed himself. The only comfort he had was that the ICE agents weren't watching them as they showered. Don't want to get the uniform wet, he thought to himself. His muscles tensed as something brushed against his side. He looked over and saw a man not too much older than himself smiling at him.
"Are you old enough to be in here with us?" the man said playfully. His slight frame was totally hairless, stubbles beginning to sprout after days in captivity. Hardly any skin was left uncovered by the black ink of whatever gang he belonged to, even his eyelids were tattooed. His narrow jawline moved with a mischievous smile and he pointed to a corner of the shower area. "How about we go over there and you can help me, guapo? Si quieres, mi pandilla puede protegerte."
Miguel's skin bristled with goosebumps when he stepped out from under the steaming water from the showerhead. "I think I'm good," he said, shaking his head with embarrassment. Shower time is over, he thought as he turned to make his way to his clothes. He was midstep when a strong grip fastened around his wrist. Miguel pulled hard and glared at the man. "I said I'm not interested."
"¡Ven aquí! The man flashed his teeth and tugged at Miguel's wrist, moving him closer to the alcove in the shower room. He was like a man possessed by a malevolent deity that could only be appeased through depravity.
Miguel felt the muscles and tendons in his arm quiver from the strain, like he was the rope at a camp tug 'o war game. His feet slid across the tile, unable to get a grip on the wet ceramic, unable to bring him to safety. Miguel thought back to the time he had seen The Shawshank Redemption; he was not going to let that happen.
Miguel extended his entrapped arm, to increase the distance between him and his attacker, and coiled back his free arm for a haymaker. The fingers of his right hand clenched into a fist and he gritted his teeth. "I said no!" he roared, and threw a punch.
Miguel felt his knuckles make contact with stubbly skin, the blow landing on the man's temple. A throbbing flash traveled from Miguel's fingers up his arm and all the way up to his shoulder. The man's grip loosened on Miguel's wrist and he was able to wrench it away, moving into a fighting stance and throwing a follow-up blow with his now-free hand. This one, a jab to the face, connected with a crunch as the cartilage in the man's face crumbled.
The man staggered back and all the other men in the shower around backed away with shouts of surprise. Lucky for Miguel, none of the other men seemed to be in his opponent's gang. Miguel felt mercy spring up in his heart as he watched the bald man wobble in front of him on unsteady legs. He decided that he was done showering.
When Miguel turned to return to the locker room he was faced with the burly ICE agent that had escorted his group to the showers. The agent loomed over Miguel like a mountain, his body blocking the light above, his eyes underlined in shadows.
"What is going on here?" The agent said.
"He tried to..." Miguel said, feeling embarrassed and unsure of how to phrase what had just happened.
The agent looked at the little, bald man and frowned. "You again?" he said, staring for the man. "I thought I told you to knock that gay shit out, Dante. Your fucking gang isn't here to protect you anymore."
The agent's fist came crashing down on Dante, with no warning, instantly sending him to the ground. Dante lay motionless, blood blossoming in the water around him. He was unable to muster the strength to rise and fell back to the tile with a splash. The agent shut off the water and stooped over Dante in triumph, before delivering another hit to the man's face. Then another and another.
Miguel's relief at the agent's intervention quickly changed to horror as the agent continued to pummel the nearly unconscious Dante in the face. The agent gripped a meaty hand around Dante's throat and lifted him up as he struck again and again. Dante gasped for air and feebly swatted the air, as if trying to clear it of smoke. With a final hammer fist, the agent let go of the limp and ragged Dante, dropping his body into the bloody water.
The agent stood from the lifeless man, breathing heavy, and rinsed his gloves in a shower head as he passed. He reached to the shoulder of his vest for his walkie and clicked the talk button. "Code fifty to the showers. Detainee is unconscious." His boots thumped through puddles as he returned to the changing area.
The drumming of water on tile echoed through the silent room, all the men staring in wide-eyed silence at what they thought might now be a corpse. Miguel knew he had every right to be at ease, to be happy that Dante had gotten what he deserved. Instead, Miguel felt guilty that someone had gotten hurt on his behalf.
Two male nurses entered the shower with a stretcher. They checked Dante's vitals, loaded him on, and then took him from the room. No one moved until the nurses had left. Some of the men resumed cleaning themselves and others left the room to change, Miguel being one of the latter.
Miguel slipped on the fresh uniform and Crocs, stooping down to tie the shoes before remembering that the shoes were without laces. Dante's bloodied face flashed in Miguel's mind. He gritted his teeth and slammed his locker door in frustration. The agent that had saved him was standing off to the side and every time Miguel looked at him, he could hear the sound of fists striking against flesh and bone.
Miguel's pulse began a creeping trek towards panic. He picked up his things and went to one of the toilets, frantically closing the stall door behind him. Miguel barely got his things up on the door hook before he threw up in the unscrubbed toilet. The sight and smell of the toilet made him throw up again and again, until tears streamed down his face and his belly ached from dry heaving. He wiped off the seat and then flushed, sitting on the toilet and trying to calm himself with breathing exercises.
Miguel closed his eyes and thought of home. He thought of his parents, he thought of Laila, and he thought of Zed. Bitter tears came first, gradually transformed by his resolve to survive this ordeal and make it back home one day. Survive. Survive and help others survive. He wiped his face and then left the stall.