Something about this boy makes me push back. He’s good-looking, in an unusual way: slender features and long fingers; a slow, sly smile. But he’s also arrogant. On the inside of his wrist is a tattoo—what look like two blue fish, swimming into each other. When I look over again, he’s drawing something else. I start to untangle myself from the bench and tap Kamal that it’s time to go. There’s a tearing sound; the boy has ripped off another page and handed it to me. Then I realize it’s a quick sketch of me—my hair wild, a squint, and my chin pushed out, stubborn.

“We’ll call this one ‘Impaciente.’ Impatient.”

I snatch it from him, face burning.

“Carlos,” he says, grinning. “Me llamo Carlos.”

There’s a rhythm to this place, kindness and prison. But no one will talk to me, let me explain my story. Social workers patrol the hall, pulling the little kids into all kinds of activities: dance and drawing and kickball in the courtyard, then a lunch of greasy macaroni and cheese, and the lounge area, where the TV is left on. It’s hard not to notice the chain on the fence and the front doors, which you can only get in when the receptionist sees you through a camera and buzzes. While Kamal and I are resting in our room with the door open, I see a trail of children, maybe five or six, walk down the hall. When they see us, they turn away, some of them throwing up their arms to hide their faces. My insides flinch. Where did they learn to do that?

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore—I run down the stairs and barge into the director’s office. “You have to do something!” I cry. “We’re not like these kids! We live here!”

The director, Ms. Kaplan, rises from her seat. “You need to cool down. Then I’ll talk to you.”

I drop down on a chair and try to suck down my anxious breaths. Rania, you go from zero to ten like really fast, Fatima always says. Try to chill down to a five. When I’ve calmed, I tell her my name and explain, “This whole thing is just a mistake. We’re not supposed to be here.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“But I have to go to school! I have graduation!” I add bitterly, “I’ve got a life!”

Her voice is low, firm. “Don’t you think all these children had lives?”

I hunch in the chair, ashamed.

“Rania, I’m sorry. This whole situation is a mistake. We’re not even the correct agency for these kids and these two populations shouldn’t be mixed. Children wrenched from their parents. Their parents deported. Lawyers calling me nonstop, trying to track down relatives.”

“I have an uncle,” I say softly.

She scribbles this down. “Do you want to call him?”