This Is My America(77)

Quincy scans the building. “This would be the only space to be unseen. Spy on someone.”

“That’s true. She wanted an exposé, doing everything she could to get something on them. Maybe she was planning on taking photos from here. Documenting this meeting? But she dropped her phone.”

“Think you can fit through again?”

I walk closer to the narrow gap that’s sandwiched between the conveyer belt and the wall.

Before I get down to crawl, Quincy tugs me closer to him. Our foreheads touch. Our lips close for the first time since Herron Media, where our kiss was for cover, not the real thing.

“Be careful,” Quincy says.

I give a shy grin and nod.

I use the flashlight on my phone as a light. I crouch down, eyeing the gap, not looking forward to shoving myself through. I scratch my neck as I try to catch my breath. I look to Quincy, then take another breath. Quincy lifts the bottom of the conveyer and moves it a few inches out. It makes a difference. I crawl on my hands and knees, scooting myself slowly along the ground.

Even though Quincy’s here, he can’t help me if I truly get stuck in the machine. Each breath is a struggle as the space becomes more and more restricted. No clear way out except behind me. Panic rises in me when I realize I probably can’t turn around.

I can hear my heart pounding. My skin goes clammy. Small lights dance across my vision.



How can I move forward?

“You okay?” Quincy calls out. “You’re quiet.”

His voice snaps me back. I have to get control. I take another deep breath. “I will be when this is done.”

Sweat drips from my forehead, and I scan the floor with my flashlight. Inch my way closer. Then I see the marks of dust wiped away when someone did the same.

“She came from under here,” I yell. “There’s a bigger gap farther along. It looks like it opens up…I think I can fit.”

I scooch in like I’m crab walking. My arms are exhausted from dragging myself through the narrowest, most difficult part. Sweat and dust blending together, my eyes start to burn. But I don’t stop. I can feel that it’s getting easier the farther I go.

I swing my light around and see wooden panels that are busted, possible openings. Then glide my body over and feel along the wall.

“What do you see?” Quincy asks.

My voice quivers. Chest squeezing tighter, freaking out because I’m so deep below the conveyer I’d be cornered if we’re caught. But I keep reaching, going farther. I feel something, then stretch my fingers until I have a good hold to pull it to me.

My eyes well because I’m touching something of Angela’s.

“Angela’s interview bag,” I say. “She’d keep her phone, notepads, and pens in there for quick write-ups on the go.”

“Her phone must’ve fell out,” Quincy says.

I rest my head against the wall and feel cold metal instead.



“I think I found something,” I say. “Can you get through?”

I rub my eyes, the dust getting to me. I take my shirt and wipe my face. Then I scoot closer, swinging my light back and forth, looking along the wall and in little crannies as Quincy pushes the belt more so I can go deeper and he’ll have room to crouch under.

I swing my flashlight, see nothing around except Quincy’s eyes meeting mine. He looks away so the light doesn’t blind him.

“Over here.” I tap the vent.

I hand him my flashlight.

“Shiiiit.”

“Is right.”

Inside the vent is a gun.





PILLAR OF SALT


Two screws are loose. It’ll be easy to bust open. Quincy reaches for the vent.

“Wait.” I stop Quincy’s hand. “Let me think first.”

“This’s the whole point we’re here, right?”

“Yes, but maybe we shouldn’t be the ones who find it.” I roll my head from side to side, stretching my neck. The urge to grab the gun still itches, but the pause gets me to think more like a cop, rather than a girl who wants her brother back.

“The thought of leaving it here is hard,” I say. “We gotta do it, though.”

“This wasn’t covered in one of your workshops, was it? Like, I didn’t sleep through a section on how to not get caught up.”



I release a smile.

“We should call Beverly when we get out of here,” I say.

“You sure?”

I sit for a minute. Think of all the scenarios. If I touch the gun, then it’ll look like I planted it. This gun could mean nothing, or it could mean bringing back Daddy and Jamal.

“We gotta wipe up our prints, too,” I say. “Run over everything we touched on the ground, the conveyer belt, the walls.”

Quincy takes his top shirt off, leaving his sleeveless undershirt on. I scoot back on my knees as I wipe my side down. Duck out the space and run over the belt.

By the time we’re done, we’re both drenched. Coughing at the dust now stuck in our lungs.

“Thanks for being here,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been able to move that belt. It doesn’t feel good leaving evidence, but if it’s been okay this long, we might be fine.”

“Yeah. We should be—” Quincy stops.