Internment(46)

The Director moves in closer. Every cell in my body screams at me to run, but my feet are glued in place. He runs his thick index finger over my infinity necklace. It’s the same gesture David made. But vile. My stomach lurches. I turn my face away and close my eyes.

“That looks like a very special necklace,” the Director says.

I taste the bile in my throat. “Yes, it is. My boyfriend gave it to me.”

The Director smiles. It’s revolting. And I realize immediately I’ve said something I shouldn’t have. I made myself less anonymous. I gave him an opening. And I have no doubt he’ll use it as ammunition if he needs to.

“A boyfriend? How nice. He’s not in here with you? So I don’t suppose he’s a Muslim, now, is he?”

Shit. Why did I open my mouth? And why did the truth have to come out of it?

“No, sir,” I whisper.

“And you are aware that the Exclusion Authority frowns on this type of interreligious mingling?”

I cringe at his words but say nothing. I cross my arms over my stomach and look down at the ground. My breaths feel shallow, feathery. I hear Jake’s boot heel grinding into the dirt.

The Director continues, clearly not noticing or not caring how uncomfortable his words make me. No. He wants this—my discomfort, my pain. “So what is your boyfriend’s religion?”

My eyes start to sting. I blink, willing myself not to cry. But I lose this battle with myself, and a tear falls down my cheek. Lying is not going to work now; it’s too easy for him to find out the truth. A quick call to my high school and he’ll know David’s name, too. “He’s Jewish,” I say. Saying it out loud feels like a betrayal. America might only be rounding up Muslims right now, and the Director might only be focused on us, but bigots don’t generally limit their hate. Islamophobes are likely anti-Semites, too. From the scowl on his face, I’m guessing the Director is one of them.

“Yes, well…” The Director pauses and inches closer to me. I can smell stale coffee on his breath. “Do let me know if you misplace that precious souvenir again. I have eyes everywhere, all the time.” He glances at the nearby drone, then turns his eyes back to me.

“Sir,” Jake says loudly. Louder than needed for how close we all are.

The Director takes a step back and looks toward Jake. “Corporal?”

“Sir, I’ll be taking an additional patrol duty since Johnson was called away. His replacement should be reporting to Mobius within the week, sir.”

“Good. I’m sure you have it under control.” The Director strokes his chin and nods.

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

The Director steps past me, presumably heading to his office in the admin building. Then he stops and turns back.

I suck in my breath and bite my lip. I take a wobbly step backward. Jake places his hand behind my back to steady me.

The drone behind the Director rises up to shoulder level and turns its camera to me. “Remember what I said, Miss Amin. I see everything. I will keep this camp safe. You can rest assured of that,” he says, then walks away, threats lingering in the dust of his wake.





Ayesha and I hurry toward the Peace Garden. That’s what they’re calling it. The Peace Garden. At least fascism doesn’t kill irony. Soheil is already at the bare plot, raking the earth, spreading out the soil where seeds will grow. And he has the reinforcements he recruited—fifteen others are here with him, digging in the dirt. The librarian gave us a gardening tutorial the other day. The Director stopped by to wish us all well, but mainly, I think, to make his presence known. To remind us that everything in Mobius exists at his pleasure. Or not. There are tools and seeds and plant food and watering cans that can be filled from a trough. At first I was surprised that they’d even let us have access to metal tools, but as I watch Jake join the two other guards, I realize that the Director’s confidence in the Exclusion Authority’s gunpower is absolute. He knows we fear him, or at least his “consequences,” so he can afford to show a sort of twisted benevolence by letting us have certain freedoms in the camp.

I haven’t told Ayesha about what happened with the Director yesterday, not yet. She’s going to freak out. Part of me is still freaking out, too. His not-so-subtle threats and warning about having eyes everywhere is not something I can downplay.

Ayesha and I grab small trowels to begin digging little holes in the earth where the seeds will go. Soheil approaches and squats next to us, sweat dripping down his neck. “I see you brought your shadow,” he says to me, raising his eyebrow and tilting his head toward Jake.

I look up at Jake. He still has that uneven tan on the back of his neck. When he escorted me to my trailer after that run-in with the Director, he said he’d try to keep a closer eye on me, too. He means to make me feel protected, but nothing about having people—or drones, for that matter—watching me makes me feel safe.

I put my trowel down and stick my fingers into the soil. It feels cool and moist against my skin. They brought in soil for this project because the desert dirt wasn’t conducive to growing things. It’s an expense, but maybe they think the price of appearing to be benevolent rulers instead of tyrants has a cost benefit—it’s cheaper than bullets and burying bodies. The worrisome thing is it makes some of the internees feel that way, too. Like maybe this isn’t as bad as it could be. They’re right; it could be much, much worse. And I’m afraid of being the reason it turns ugly. Uglier.