It took more than two weeks before the o cials called Santiago in for his intake interview. Or rather, two Sundays of the infamous boxed eggs and i y sausages had passed. When each day more or less started and ended the same, time was easier to count by Sundays. Most kids got their interview within a few days. The o cials must have forgotten about him. It didn’t surprise him. What did was when Castillo nally called him out after breakfast. “Your interview is scheduled now. Do you need to use the bathroom?” “No.” Santiago wiped his sweaty hands on the back of his pants and straightened his shoulders to follow the guard. First impressions counted for everything. But what kind of impression did he want to make? What impression would o er what? No one told him anything. He knew everyone who came through the facility got interviewed to determine what the government would do with the individual. Sometimes when Chismoso got bored, he told stories about who had cried while being interviewed, or who had claimed to be the illegitimate child of the president. But what resulted from those tales? Chismoso hadn’t said. Still, Santiago could pretend to be brave.
The room in which Castillo left him felt bright and sterile—b linding white walls and uorescent lights that could be seen from the moon had there been any windows, which there weren’t. The e ect resulted in a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature. On the contrary, the temperature in this room was pleasant compared to the perpetual chill that penetrated their main living area. Two people sat at a table with les of paperwork and gestured for him to sit on the other side. The Latina spoke while the gringo man took notes. “We have questions to ask which you need to answer truthfully,” she said in a voice that came out both patronizing and emotionless. “Do you understand?” “Yes.” “First, is Spanish the best language for you to communicate in, or do you require a di erent language?” He wanted to joke, ease the tension, say something like good food was the language he best identi ed with, so having a pork-and-cheese t a m a l present would make communication easier. But these two didn’t seem the joking type. “Spanish is ne,” he said. “What is your full name?” “Santiago García Reyes.” “When is your birthday?” ”I don’t know. Around Easter.” “What year?” “I’m twelve now, so whatever year that means.” Maybe because he was a kid, or he really looked clueless, they didn’t question either response. “What country do you come from?” “México.” “And what is your address in México?” “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What village or town?” “I don’t know if it has a name. We just call it e l c a m p o .” The man and woman looked at each other, communicating tel epathically, maybe thinking he was lying. He didn’t know what to tell them. He honestly didn’t know. L a m a l v a d a lived in a huddle of buildings that didn’t have a bus
stop—you just told the driver where to let you o or waved along the side of the road when you wanted the driver to pick you up. Sometimes, if you were lucky, the driver did. “But it’s about thirty minutes outside of Chihuahua,” Santiago added. That response received a slight nod from the woman, as if he’d nally said something right. “Why did you try to enter Los Estados Unidos illegally?” He paused for a second to think which response would gain the most sympathy, but he noticed the woman’s eyes narrow when he didn’t answer immediately. “Mami’s m a d r e beat me.” They didn’t seem to hear what he’d said. Or they chose not to believe it. “Did you come here alone?” the woman continued. “No,” he sighed. “Who were the people you came with?” “My sisters.” He hadn’t intended to lie. With Alegría gone, he knew he’d never see them again. He might have helped them cross the border, even saved their lives, but at the end of the day, he was just some random kid they’d picked up in México. He’d been stupid to think they’d felt otherwise. At the same time, it still resonated as the most truthful thing he’d said yet. In his heart, they had been his sisters. “Let me remind you”—the woman leaned forward on the table and spoke slowly and extra patronizingly—“that we are U. S. government o cials, and we require a truthful statement on your behalf.” “Yes,” Santiago agreed. The woman crossed her hands over her le. “We know for a fact that a mother and young daughter were traveling with you.” Santiago nodded. “That’s right. María Dolores Piedra Reyes, l a m a d r e , and Alegría García Piedra, l a h i j a . My sisters.” The woman narrowed her eyes again, then lifted her eyebrows, the rst obvious change of expression from her otherwise deadpan face. “Explain.” An in voluntary sigh came out of Santiago. Details were key. Details would make any story believable.
“María Eugenia was born rst.” He mentioned the name of María Dolores’s married sister. “Then came María Dolores. After that, my m a m á met my p a d r e and had me.” So far, so true. After all, his own parents had met after María Dolores had been born; and he never actually said María Eugenia and María Dolores were born to h i s m a m á . “Then Padre...” He deliberately didn’t use “my,” so still not lying. “He fell in love with María Dolores and had Alegría. So, sisters.” The man looked up from his notes and gave a slight nod in agreement that these things sometimes happened. Santiago remembered hearing a gossiping relative once say that stranger things happened in real life than in ction. The woman acc epted the statement with a blink. “Where are your parents?” “Padre disappeared. No one knows where he went.” His voice grew softer. “And Mami died when I was little.” “So, who raised you?” A muscle in voluntarily jerked at the side of his face. He wouldn’t lie here—h e didn’t know what to say instead—b ut that didn’t mean he would be happy about sharing this part of his life either. “I told you. My m a m á ’s m a d r e , the one who hit me.” “Your a b u e l a ?” How he hated that word in the context of l a m a l v a d a . Someone like her didn’t deserve to be called a grandmother. “Yes.” “What is her name?” He could refuse to answer. He never called her anything to her face, exc ept once, and that resulted in the burn marks running down his back. If ever there was a name that didn’t suit someone it was hers. “Agracia Reyes de la Luz.” “And your mother’s name?” “So nda Reyes de la Luz.” “And your father’s?” “I don’t know.” “How do you not know your father’s name?” “Mami never talked about him. He left before I knew him.”
A weighted silence fell over the room. Oh no, now he’d done it. He’d said too much. He forced his face to remain blank, but he’d messed up, and the woman noticed. “You said your father fell in love with your sister, María Dolores. How is it you never knew him?” “I was living with relatives at that time.” He continued not lying. It wasn’t his responsibility to correct the woman over whose father it had been, or anything else she misunderstood. “Mami had died, and her m a d r e hated me, so she’d send me o to di erent relatives. I didn’t know about Alegría until recently, and that’s the truth.” Again the pair exchanged questioning looks. Santiago waited in his chair patiently while they came to a nonverbal conclusion. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?” the woman asked as if she half expected him to confess to being a mass murderer and drug lord. Santiago straightened up in the chair and licked his lips. If there was any chance... “Where are my sisters? Do they know I’m still here? Are they coming back for me? How can I get in contact with them?” “I’m sorry, that information is restricted.” “But they’re my family!” he screamed. So much for making a favorable impression. “The only family I care about.” The woman’s mouth twitched as if she was about to tell him o for being rude. Instead, she turned her attention to the les in front of her and made a show of straightening them. “We’re going to look into all of this information for veri cation.” “Go ahead.” He slumped back on the chair. For the rst time since Alegría’s d eparture, Santiago felt relief. With her gone, they couldn’t prove or disprove his story. His truth. The man nished scribbling his notes and passed the notebook across to Santiago. “Please read this information and sign below to con rm that everything it says is accurate.” This time Santiago paled. He shifted on his hard chair and avoided making eye contact. “I can’t. I’m still learning how to read.”