Here Lucia’s bravado falters. She’s undocumented. The whole family is. She fishes out an ID, the woman scribbles down the information, then gives it back. “Okay, you’ll need to stay with them. We’ll send someone to make sure your mother is serving as standby.”

The officer gently takes my mother’s elbow and guides her past half-opened doors and frightened faces. Kamal flings his arms around me, presses his head into my stomach.

Lucia nervously picks at her fingers. Behind her toughness, she’s scared. Just like us. She puts her hand on Kamal’s back. “Thanks,” I whisper.

And then we are watching, stunned, as Ammi disappears down the stairwell, swallowed up in a mound of heads and shoulders. It’s only after she leaves that it sinks in.

This was a raid. An ICE raid.

I wrench Kamal into our apartment, slam the door, and push down a sob. No. I can’t break down in front of Kamal. Back in our bedroom, I nudge him into bed. Even though he’s trembling and confused, he slides his bare feet under the blanket and turns his back to me. I rush to the window. Down below, several ICE agents mill in the hot glare of lights. One puts a palm on Ammi’s head, steering her toward the back of the van. She glances up at me, to our window. I see her mouth move.

Run, I’m sure she’s saying. Run.

Chapter Two

Two months ago I was running around for fun.

It was early April, one of those hot days where sweat pricks the back of your neck the minute you step outside. I had just dropped off Kamal at school and was heading over to the subway to meet my best friend, Fatima. This was our routine every day since we met at the beginning of ninth grade in gym class. On that day, I was groaning and cursing my thick hair falling in my face when a girl handed me a gold-braided tie, saying, “Take it. I’ve made fifty more.” She had the same wild waves as me, but she looked way more chic with her gray-green eyes, her drab uniform shorts rolled into neat cuffs. I snapped the band into place and felt sleek and cool.

Now, by spring of senior year, it’s like there’s a wind under our sneakers. Fatima and I glide and slide through the Brooklyn streets—my neighborhood, Sunset Park; hers in Bay Ridge. Our shoulders loosened back, not bowed with textbooks. All that counted is behind us. Sure, we’ve got our Regents exams but I’m not too worried. We’re in the fourth quarter, our grades stacking up fine. I’ve got my admission to Hunter College in Manhattan; after lots of family drama, Fatima’s going to Brooklyn College.