I can barely make out Carlos, but I see him lean forward, arms cupped around his knees. “She was very good. She worked at a factory. For sixteen years. She led a quiet life. Went to church every Sunday. She was good to me. Even when I got in trouble at school, she didn’t say she would send me back.”

His chest sucks inward as he takes a breath. “And then one day they just showed up. Said her deportation order was in effect. And that was that. I was in gym at the time.” He pauses. “Can you imagine? I was running around the track hoping this girl Lucinda didn’t see how slow I was.”

Carlos doesn’t act like a regular teenager, with normal stupid obsessions. I’m stung with jealousy for a girl named Lucinda watching Carlos run laps. Is that who he’s thinking about? Why he holds himself back from me? I bite down on the thought. We’re like a mom and dad, taking care of Kamal. A brother and sister. Not a boyfriend and girlfriend. Then why do I stare at his mouth when he talks, wishing I could kiss him? Why do I want to smooth those thin scars with my fingers?

“How is she now?”

“She’s back in our town. I spoke to her a few times. She told me those guys—the ones who made me run—they keep asking about me.”

“What does she tell them?”

“That I’m never coming back.” His voice goes tight. “And I’m not.”

I keep watching the jerking silhouette of Kamal tossing his stones.

“Don’t you ever get angry?” I ask. “At all that’s happened to you?”

“Not anymore. That gets you nowhere.” He turns to me. “The solution will come.”

“Paciencia.”

“That’s why I like to draw. It makes me slow down. Take things in. Especially when there’s so much shit I can’t control.”

I think about what Fatima said. How I’ve always thought I could push through anything. Just like Ammi. I’ve watched her barge into offices, demanding all the right documents so she could get a license. She doesn’t take no for an answer. Neither do I. But sometimes having a will is not enough. Here we are: She’s stuck in some awful detention center. Me and Carlos and Kamal in a motel room, suspended. Waiting.

“Okay, your turn,” Carlos says. “What about your father?”

“What about him?” I’m aware of Carlos’s leg, right next to mine, electric with warmth.

“Are you going to do anything?”

“He’s no one,” I say. My throat feels hoarse.