Internment(26)

What the hell am I even thinking?

I take a deep, shuddering breath and cry. I lay my cheek against the ground, and my tears mingle with the dirt. I feel jagged streaks of mud caking onto my face. I clench my hands into fists. Crying only makes me angry with myself. There’s no use for tears here. But my rage—that I’ll hold on to.

I hear the crunch of a footstep and then a small spray of pebbles hitting a rock. I gasp, then immediately cover my mouth with my hands.

A low male voice speaks from the other side of the rock: “You shouldn’t be here.”

My heart races. I turn and push myself off the ground. My knees wobble, but I stand. My eyes dart around, then land on the face of the guard from the train. Compass Tattoo.

There’s nowhere to run.

I take a deep breath. Then another.

Think.

Don’t be stupid.

Smile.

The guard’s eyes soften, but his jaw is tight. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I… um, lost my necklace earlier, but I found it.” I finger the silver infinity charm at my neck, my last link to David. “It was a gift from my boyfriend.” I choke out the words. Don’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

“You’re breaking curfew. You realize that? You understand the consequences of breaking the rules here?”

“Are you going to report me?” My voice falters. I clear my throat. “To the Director?”

The guard takes a step closer to me. He blinks. I’m suddenly aware of the muddy trail of tears on my face. I brush away the dirt with the back of my hand. In the dark it’s hard to read his face clearly, but he seems to grimace, like he’s been hurt. Then he clenches his jaw. He takes me by the elbow, and I swear his fingers shake a little. He looks past me toward the mountains, then around us. We’re alone.

“Please,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

He rubs his forehead with his free hand. “We need to get you back. Now.”

He hurries me through the camp, dodging the searchlights, weaving in and out of the trailer homes to avoid unwanted attention.

The entire camp is asleep. I look up at the sky and see stars. Everywhere. I keep having the same sensation over and over: If this place weren’t a prison, it would be beautiful. But as it is, I feel like the sky will light on fire any second now, and all the stars will crash into one another and burn away to ash. I slow down as we approach my Mercury Home. I probably shouldn’t ask, but my curiosity too often gets the better of me. “Why aren’t you turning me in?”

“Because I’m not—” He cuts himself off.

“Not an Exclusion Guard at an internment camp?”

He stops and looks me in the eyes. “Things aren’t always as they seem, Layla.”

He knows my name. I don’t think it’s good to be known in this place. We walk the last few steps in silence. But if he knows my name, it’s only right that I know his. “What’s your name?” I ask as we stop in front of my door.

He narrows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to read something but the print is too small. He bends down and whispers, “I’m Corporal Reynolds. Don’t do this again. There are snakes. And men who will shoot you.”





When I was walking out to the Mess the other night, I overheard two girls, probably from seventh or eighth grade, from Block 3—another desi block. One of them was talking about making a small curtain for the tiny window in her bedroom out of an extra pillowcase she’d decorated with markers. She seemed really happy to have something pretty to look at so her room “felt more homey,” she said. My gut twisted when she said those words. That she was happy with something so small, so simple. People need to do what they can to manage the day-to-day in this place, but making Mobius feel like home is the last thing I want. To me it would feel like giving up. Still, I followed the girls back to their block after dinner and gave them the washi tape I’d brought along for some reason but hadn’t bothered unpacking. Sometimes it’s the small things that give us hope and make life bearable.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of my little nondescript, white-walled prison room. Ayesha’s on my bottom bunk. This room, this unit, it’s claustrophobic, but Ayesha shares hers with her brother, so the small space of my room gives her a sibling-free refuge. Privacy. A tiny bubble where the cameras and guards and drones aren’t looking at us.

I sigh. “We have no idea how long we’re going to be in here, do we? We elected this guy who sees all of us as a threat. He doesn’t have to let us out. We’re like netted fish, struggling to find water, but we don’t realize we’re drowning on dry land. We have to get out.”

Ayesha whispers, “What do you mean? How do you propose to get out?”

“I don’t know. But we have to figure out something. There have to be others who feel the same way. I know there are. There’s not just fear in the camp; there’s anger, too.”

“Anger can’t turn off the electricity to the fence. And unless you’re planning on getting out in a body bag—” Ayesha brings her hand to her mouth, stopping the words, but I was thinking them anyway.

“No. I’m planning on getting out alive. Think about it. There’s never been a wall that people haven’t been able to get by.”