You do not move when the first black SUV stops in front of the gate.
The dust from the street curls around your shoes, your old backpack cuts into one shoulder, and your mother’s hand is still on the iron door she was about to slam in your face. For one suspended second, the whole street seems to hold its breath with you. Curtains shift. Dogs bark. The afternoon heat presses down so hard it feels like judgment.
Your sister Lupita goes pale first.
Not because she knows exactly who is inside the vehicles, but because women like her are experts at reading danger the moment it stops arriving poor. All morning she was brave with you because you looked defeated. Your faded sweater, your dusty sneakers, your tired eyes, your quiet voice—those things made her feel safe enough to be cruel.
