For some reason, the drive has us lighter, sillier, even happier. We’re making the most of these hours together, putting off the inevitable. Carlos keeps his arm draped on the back of my seat, occasionally touching my hair. ¡Mi amor! I keep thrilling at the words. No more hiding how we feel. But then I’m laughing too at how corny we are. We sing songs. We play the car license game—we’ve come up with thirty-two states so far. Carlos makes Kamal do his addition and subtraction tables. Then I grow sad, remembering what we’re doing. I dream of a time when we can be together, when I can cross borders easily and throw my arms around Carlos. I try not to pay attention to the pinched knot in my stomach, or the way my hands sometimes tremble on the wheel.

We pull into Buffalo in the afternoon, and stop at a drab-looking brick building surrounded by a huge metal fence, clothing folded over the top edge. Up the concrete stairs, where we are buzzed into an echoey place of noise and commotion. People hurry down corridors, a group of kids sit in a kind of living room with toys and board games. Carlos and I freeze: It’s the shelter all over again, only with families dragging their luggage up a set of stairs.

Rachel greets us in a narrow office crammed high with files and papers. She’s a heavyset woman, with gold-rimmed glasses that give her face a clear, direct look. Like all the adults, she’s kind, but harried. She hands Carlos a clipboard, forms to be filled out. Then she explains that since he’s here, she can start the paperwork for asylum in Canada. While he’s doing that, so many people stop in—one, a woman who’s carrying her baby in a sling on her back. She’s crying. “Isn’t there anything we can do?” she asks Rachel.

“I’m so sorry. You just have to wait.”

There’s an air of desperation, of people at a dead end. We’re not even the only teenagers on our own—two brothers in Guatemala flag T-shirts slump on a sofa, napping with their arms crossed. Rachel leads us from room to room—crammed offices, a cafeteria and meeting room, the laundry room where people fold their clothes into luggage, a dormitory where people sprawl limp on beds. I tuck my hand into Kamal’s as we follow Rachel down a hall to a small room.

She points to a bulletin board pinned with several sheets, and lists of names. “Every day they release the names of the people who can appear at the border crossing.”

“How many do they usually release?” Carlos asks.

“Two or three, maybe as much as five.”