The second Mrs. Jenkins closes the classroom door, my eyes start shutting. I’m exhausted from the run, and the trig classroom is the worst. The windows are small and have bars on them, so the dim light makes this feel like the perfect place for napping. There are some people who actually do it—if you listen closely, you can sometimes hear soft snoring—but I always resist the temptation. I make every last effort to pay attention, and take notes, and hang on to every single word that comes out of Mrs. Jenkins’s mouth.

When the last bell of the day finally rings, I watch jealously as people rush toward the front doors of the school, even as I try to push my way in the opposite direction. Like most weeks, SAT prep drags on, but I just keep telling myself the same things I always do—that I have to try my best, that I have to focus, that my GPA and SAT scores are the first steps toward NYU and my Broadway dreams, and that one day, I’ll look back and realize all of this was worth it.

As soon as I walk out of school and head toward the subway a few hours later, my stomach grumbles. I wonder what Ma is making for dinner tonight. I can’t wait to eat and change out of these clothes, but I shouldn’t leave Erika to close the store by herself when she’s been covering for me all afternoon. And so, when I get off the subway, I make my way down Avenue A as quickly as I can, until I finally reach the bodega. When I try to push the door open, though, it doesn’t budge. I try again, thinking maybe it’s just stuck, but no—it’s locked.

Taking a step back, I realize the CLOSED sign is up. My heart starts beating fast. The bodega never closes early. Erika wouldn’t have done this unless something terrible had happened.

I press my hands against the glass, looking in, but I see nothing. All the lights are off.

“Hello?” I shout, hitting the door with the palms of my hands. “Erika?”

From the corner of my eye, I see movement behind the counter. A second later, Erika appears. She turns the lock, undoes the top and bottom latches, and lets me in.

I step inside with a knot in my throat. I know right away that there’s no one else here—there’s emptiness all around us, filling every corner of the store.

“Erika,” I say softly. “What happened?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but no sounds come out. She shakes her head, first slowly and then desperately. “They came back,” she manages to say.

“They?” I ask. “The ICE agents? Did they take my dad?”