Internment(19)

I smirk. “I was saving the regs file for pre-bedtime viewing. I hear it’s riveting.”

“Total clickbait.”

“Are we allowed to walk anywhere in the camp?”

“I guess. Just don’t walk into the fences or you’ll be shocked. They’re electrified.”

I smirk. “I’m going to put this out there, to be transparent: I can’t have a friendship based solely on puns.”

“What about witty barbs?”

“Add the occasional bon mot and I’m in.” I want to laugh a little, but I don’t have a laugh to give. Light, easy laughter feels lost. Like a phantom emotion. Still, I’m grateful for even the passing sensation.

Two guards on patrol pass by, turning their heads toward us. Without thinking about it, we both walk in the opposite direction.

“Do you know there’s a camera in the Mercury Homes?” I don’t whisper, not exactly, but seeing the guards everywhere makes me feel on edge, so I speak softly. “I mean, how are we supposed to shower?”

“The cameras are only in the common area, not in the bathrooms or bedrooms. And supposedly they don’t record sound. But we probably should assume they actually do. Safer that way. So I guess you really didn’t check out the regs, did you?”

“No. I was busy exploring our internment lodgings. And unpacking.”

“Unpacking? You mean the ten articles of clothing we were allowed to bring?”

“I brought twelve—I’m an amazing packer.”

“Rebel. You should totally have your own reality show: Packing for Uncertainty.”

It’s a joke. It feels both natural and totally inappropriate to joke. Like this whole conversation, really. Every syllable is awkward, and every reaction feels wrong. It doesn’t seem like there’s any right way to simply be in here. Like we’re on a journey with no map, no compass, and no destination.

“Let’s go over there. I think I saw a little garden.” Ayesha directs me down a wide main road that divides the camp into halves. On the map we all received, it’s called the Midway.

“A garden?”

“I think it’s more like a small outcropping of rocks and shrubs.”

We walk down the Midway. I’d call it a road, but there are no cars in the camp—at least none that we’re allowed to drive. There’s a small parking lot to the left of the main entrance, but like everything else, our cars are back home. It’s not until I walk down the Midway, toward what is essentially the back of the camp—the side that faces the mountains, not the road outside the camp—that I realize how large Mobius is. Yet its size is dwarfed by the vastness of the desert around us. There’s noise, but not city noise. No planes overhead that I’ve seen yet. No sirens. And besides the little kids trying to occupy themselves, there’s a lot of eerie silence. Many pairs of eyes that dart about and then are quickly cast downward when guards pass. Tearstained faces. Dusty hems and cuffs. People walking around aimlessly, like Ayesha and I are. Searching. Looking. Wondering if there’s a way out. But all we see are guards and guns and a fence whose sole purpose is to keep us locked in here—that, or kill us.

The back of the camp appears less heavily watched. There are still armed guards walking around, and watchtowers, but it’s a little quieter. And there are evenly spaced orange plastic crowd-control barriers—you know, the kind you sometimes see along parade routes or at outdoor concerts—between the fence and us. Ostensibly, they’re to prevent us from walking right up to the fence and getting electrocuted, but there’s space between them to slip by, and they’re only hip-high. And what about the little kids? I suppose no parent will let their child out of their sight in this place. I pray that none slip away from their parents or think this is a good spot for hide-and-seek. Hopefully, the DANGER—ELECTRIC FENCE signs that show a lightning bolt zapping through a body and that are posted every ten feet will keep both kids and adults away.

The government—the Exclusion Authority—built all of this, this whole camp, under the cover of darkness. I wonder what else they’ve built. What else can they do to us when America isn’t looking?

We are nearly at the end of the camp: nothing but the fence and, beyond that, the desert. Off to the side is the garden—a bit of an overblown name for it, since it’s mostly large, uneven rocks surrounded by pale-green shrubs, the color of eucalyptus. Here and there are dry stalks of yellow flowers that look almost like mustard plants. If this corner were all you could see of the camp, it would be beautiful. Yellow petals, brown dirt, blue sky. If we weren’t prisoners, this place would feel peaceful. If history had no ghosts, I wouldn’t be terrified of what might come next. If. But “ifs” are always loaded, aren’t they?

Ayesha bends low and plucks a small purple flower that’s growing from underneath a rough-surfaced, arrowhead-shaped rock. She takes a seat and twirls the blossom between her thumb and index finger. I wander over to another boulder and kneel in front of it, brushing some loose dirt from its face.

“What are you doing?”

“I think there’s something carved into the stone. Maybe a petroglyph?” I break off a twig and scrape at the dust in the outlines. I use my fingernail to flake off some dirt. I’m parched, and it dawns on me that I shouldn’t stray far from the trailer without water. I give the outline a final brush with my palm and sit back on the hard ground. “Dammit. That doesn’t look prehistoric.”