Internment(17)

“Is Mercury Home the new euphemism for ‘trailer’?” I ask. The woman raises an eyebrow at me. My dad pulls me back by my elbow.

“Where’s Block Two?” my mom asks.

“Here’s a map. There’s a file titled ‘Regulations’ on the home screen of your media unit in your dwelling. Familiarize yourself with it.”

I trace my infinity charm with my finger, thinking of my phone in the hands of a stranger, or maybe even destroyed. All my pictures with David, the tennis team selfies—lost. Everywhere around us are uniformed men with guns. It’s terrifying, but I feel a rage rising in me, too.

“Do we have phones in our trailers? Even prisoners are allowed phone calls,” I say.

“Layla.” I hear the fear in my dad’s voice when he chastises me.

“You’re allowed preapproved calls. There are phones in the recreation area of the Hub.” The woman points down a hall at the end of the large open room we’re in. “You can request to make a phone call from the Hub, subject to approval. They’ll explain at the orientation.”

“Are we also allowed to eat?” I ask. My stomach has been grumbling since we got off the bus, and I feel my hangriness coming on.

The woman blows out a puff of air. I can tell I’m trying her patience. “There are box lunches waiting for you near the exit.”

“What about news? How will we find out what’s happening outside, um—”

“MO-BE-US.” The woman reminds us of the name of the camp like we can’t speak English and somehow her speaking slowly and very loudly will suddenly make us fluent.

“We do actually speak English.” I say. “Just FYI.”

“Layla,” my mom says sternly, and takes my hand.

The woman gives me a sour look but ignores me, continuing where she left off without missing a beat. “The Director decides what news you get at Mobius and grants you access via the media units in your dwelling. All the answers you need will be given to you at the orientation.” The woman, clearly irritated, looks straight past me. “Next,” she says.

We stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do. The confusion and anger of hundreds of people fill the hall and make the air heavy and hard to breathe.

“Next!” The woman raises her voice, on the edge of yelling.

We walk out of the Hub and into the bright daylight. I look up, shielding my eyes from the sun; a small drone hovers in the air above us. It pauses, like it’s looking at me, and then flies toward the red-faced man in the suit, who wipes a handkerchief across his brow. The drone is shiny red metal, smooth, an ellipsoid, but as it approaches the man, three black legs unfold from its belly and allow it to land vertically, like a mechanical spider leaping from air to ground. It follows behind the man like a pet. Drones are everywhere, but I’ve never seen one like that, like it’s almost alive.

The Mercury Homes are arranged by blocks, eight identical mobile homes on each side of the block, tan with white trim around the windows and three aluminum steps leading to a white door with the house number on it. A small metal nameplate on the door spells out MERCURY HOME. I laugh, imagining that FEMA purchased these trailers from some company trying to appeal to the retro, rich-hipster crowd. They’re not shiny like Airstreams, or as cool, but I could totally see someone trying to retrofit one of these and renting it on Airbnb, appealing to people who don’t really want to rough it but want to pretend like they are. The trailer sales must’ve been a bust, because they’ve been downgraded to prison glamping. My mom waves the key card in front of the round electronic lock pad, and we enter.

I glance around. Bile rises in my throat. I guess Mercury Homes are better than the shanties we saw when we passed Manzanar. It’s a mobile home, but it’s still prison. The front door opens into the common area—a combo kitchen-dining-living-room. The unit is spare, narrow. Square footage–wise, it feels smaller than our kitchen and dining area at home, so I’m guessing cabin fever is going to come on fast and strong.

My mom places our camp-issued lunches on the compact table, sniffs the air, and rubs her nose. The entire space smells like the inside of a bottle of bleach. I wonder what they were trying to scrub away.

My dad clears his throat and goes to open one of the rectangular windows above the built-in sofa, which is covered in tannish-brown vinyl. He jimmies it up a few inches but then immediately shuts it when he gets dust in his eye. My mom walks over and tells him to sit down so she can get a better look. The vinyl squeaks as he takes a seat.

I grab a sandwich from our box lunches. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Of course. I scarf it down in a few bites.

Then I walk a few strides through the narrow kitchen to two side-by-side doors and throw them open.

“Found the bedrooms,” I shout at my parents. But there’s really no reason to raise my voice. Even though they are at the opposite end of the trailer, they’re still basically within spitting distance.

My mom nods at me. Looks like my dad’s eyes are clear of dust, but they’re still glassy and wet. My mom’s are, too. It hurts to see them this way. They look old. And tired. Like they’ve walked here from home. Our real home. Our only home. I remember reading about people who, well, aren’t in our situation—not exactly—but who are displaced, uprooted, and how some of them try to make the best of it, keeping home as a feeling in their hearts, not an actual physical place. But I don’t want to do that. I can’t. It would feel like a betrayal to my old life, to myself. I have one home, and it’s not going to be this place. The government might be able to steal our lives from us, but they can’t steal our thoughts.