It’s the second week of July and we’re hiding out in this place that feels like it’s the edge of America. Everything flat as can be, land and water reaching in all directions. We float along, disappearing inside the rhythms of mostly white families taking their vacations. The crowds are getting thicker around the fried fish places and lobster restaurants. The past two Saturdays there’s been a slow caravan of cars crawling down Route 6, luggage tied to the roofs, bicycles spinning on the backs.

We pretend. We pretend we’re not running because now we’re staying. We pretend there’s no news or headlines or sounds of children crying at shelters. We pretend there isn’t a ripped seam in our families, from long ago, in another country.

Sometimes I worry if people wonder who we are—three brown-skinned kids, no adults around. But there are others like us: boys who bike over for their kitchen jobs in a cook’s white pants or the restaurant’s T-shirts; women who pop out of vans, hauling tubs of cleaning equipment, heading into rental homes. Once one of them called out to Carlos, “¡Hola!” and he gave a friendly wave back. We hide among them too.

I spoke to Ammi once and told her Uncle is busy working all the time. I keep fending off Lidia, who is not happy. Ammi has put her off us, told her I’m responsible, with relatives. Sometimes I see Ammi’s number lighting up my phone and I let it go to voice mail. Sorry, Ammi, I text. Busy with Auntie. Helping out. She texts back, Good girl. And finally I emailed Amirah, praying that I hadn’t lost the job. Sorry for the delay. Is it possible to do training in August? Can’t wait to start!

I can make our money stretch. On Wednesdays and Fridays, I let Kamal play video games on my computer while I don rubber gloves, push a laundry tub into each motel room, scrub the toilets and sinks and tubs, and leave stacks of fresh towels, which brings in another two hundred. And we get lots of free leftovers from the restaurant, which we store in the portable fridge. We buy beach and pond stickers, bathing suits, beach towels, plastic buckets, and arm floaties for Kamal, head out onto Route 6, and turn down the road, to a pond.

“Look, look!” Kamal shouts.

“I’m looking,” I say.