After meals, Carlos always plays soccer with Kamal in the courtyard. It’s not long before a cluster of boys gather around Carlos and they zigzag in the tight space. He does this again after dinner, which is my favorite time of day, when the heat seeps away from the concrete yard. I’ll bring some novel from the rec room, or scribble in my notebook, while watching them play. I notice Carlos toss back his hair, showing that streak of bad dye. Still, he always makes sure to kick the ball to Kamal, who is shy, and easily winds up chasing after the pack. Sitting on the steps, in the dwindling light, you can’t tell we’re locked in: The kids are just shapes, moving, free.

“Why do you keep following me?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Look around, you see anyone else our age?”

It’s true; most of the kids here are pretty young.

“When’s your birthday?” I ask.

“October. I hit eighteen and adios! Deportado.” He makes a swooping motion with his hand.

“How can you joke about it?”

“What do you want me to do? Cry all the time?”

“What about yelling?”

He pats his knees, stands. “I leave that to you, amiga.”

Amiga. Friend. He’s not my friend, I tell myself. Fatima is. But she still hasn’t gotten back to me about the guardianship paper. Hold tight, she keeps texting. Lidia has texted too, told me she’s working on my mother’s release but she doesn’t have much more to report.

“So, why are you here?” I ask him.

He hesitates a moment, as if deciding whether to tell me. Then he sits back down on the bench. “I was living with my aunt in Long Island.” He starts rubbing his palms on his jeans knees, back and forth. “There was a raid at the factory where she worked.” He pauses. “She did everything for me. She got me here. She bought me this art stuff. She didn’t care. Just as long as I stayed out of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You don’t want to know.” He glances away. I notice two faint scars, like thin lightning, streaking his neck.

“Have you always drawn like that?” I ask, pointing to his backpack.

“Yeah. I used to do pictures for the tourists. In Guanajuato. One day this guy saw me draw and he offered to pay for my school. A better school. It was weird. He didn’t have any kids of his own. So I got to go to a school where I learned English. Everything was going great but then he died. And his family didn’t want to keep paying. That’s when my aunt sent for me. I was lucky.”

That word again. Lucky. Different. Special. But those aren’t my words. They were my mother’s. And they aren’t helping me anymore.

Five days here. Five days to graduation.