by Samira Ahmed
Our turn comes to check in and get our room assignments. An auburn-haired woman with a tight bun and pursed red lips peruses the laptop on the desk in front of her, reading the data from our barcodes.
“Ali, Sophia, Layla Amin.” She says it like a fact but apparently wants an answer, because she gives us a hard stare when we stand there in silence.
“Yes. I’m Ali. My wife, Sophia. And this is our daughter, Layla.” My dad places his hand, in turn, on our shoulders, like he’s introducing us at a social event.
“You’ve been assigned to Mercury Home Number Seventeen, Block Two,” the woman says, and hands us three key cards. “Report to the Hub auditorium at seventeen hundred hours for orientation.”
“Is Mercury Home the new euphemism for ‘trailer’?” I ask. The woman raises an eyebrow at me. My dad pulls me back by my elbow.
“Where’s Block Two?” my mom asks.
“Here’s a map. There’s a file titled ‘Regulations’ on the home screen of your media unit in your dwelling. Familiarize yourself with it.”
I trace my infinity charm with my finger, thinking of my phone in the hands of a stranger, or maybe even destroyed. All my pictures with David, the tennis team selfies—lost. Everywhere around us are uniformed men with guns. It’s terrifying, but I feel a rage rising in me, too.
“Do we have phones in our trailers? Even prisoners are allowed phone calls,” I say.
“Layla.” I hear the fear in my dad’s voice when he chastises me.
“You’re allowed preapproved calls. There are phones in the recreation area of the Hub.” The woman points down a hall at the end of the large open room we’re in. “You can request to make a phone call from the Hub, subject to approval. They’ll explain at the orientation.”
“Are we also allowed to eat?” I ask. My stomach has been grumbling since we got off the bus, and I feel my hangriness coming on.
The woman blows out a puff of air. I can tell I’m trying her patience. “There are box lunches waiting for you near the exit.”
“What about news? How will we find out what’s happening outside, um—”
“MO-BE-US.” The woman reminds us of the name of the camp like we can’t speak English and somehow her speaking slowly and very loudly will suddenly make us fluent.
“We do actually speak English.” I say. “Just FYI.”
“Layla,” my mom says sternly, and takes my hand.
The woman gives me a sour look but ignores me, continuing where she left off without missing a beat. “The Director decides what news you get at Mobius and grants you access via the media units in your dwelling. All the answers you need will be given to you at the orientation.” The woman, clearly irritated, looks straight past me. “Next,” she says.
We stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do. The confusion and anger of hundreds of people fill the hall and make the air heavy and hard to breathe.
“Next!” The woman raises her voice, on the edge of yelling.
We walk out of the Hub and into the bright daylight. I look up, shielding my eyes from the sun; a small drone hovers in the air above us. It pauses, like it’s looking at me, and then flies toward the red-faced man in the suit, who wipes a handkerchief across his brow. The drone is shiny red metal, smooth, an ellipsoid, but as it approaches the man, three black legs unfold from its belly and allow it to land vertically, like a mechanical spider leaping from air to ground. It follows behind the man like a pet. Drones are everywhere, but I’ve never seen one like that, like it’s almost alive.
The Mercury Homes are arranged by blocks, eight identical mobile homes on each side of the block, tan with white trim around the windows and three aluminum steps leading to a white door with the house number on it. A small metal nameplate on the door spells out MERCURY HOME. I laugh, imagining that FEMA purchased these trailers from some company trying to appeal to the retro, rich-hipster crowd. They’re not shiny like Airstreams, or as cool, but I could totally see someone trying to retrofit one of these and renting it on Airbnb, appealing to people who don’t really want to rough it but want to pretend like they are. The trailer sales must’ve been a bust, because they’ve been downgraded to prison glamping. My mom waves the key card in front of the round electronic lock pad, and we enter.
I glance around. Bile rises in my throat. I guess Mercury Homes are better than the shanties we saw when we passed Manzanar. It’s a mobile home, but it’s still prison. The front door opens into the common area—a combo kitchen-dining-living-room. The unit is spare, narrow. Square footage–wise, it feels smaller than our kitchen and dining area at home, so I’m guessing cabin fever is going to come on fast and strong.
My mom places our camp-issued lunches on the compact table, sniffs the air, and rubs her nose. The entire space smells like the inside of a bottle of bleach. I wonder what they were trying to scrub away.
My dad clears his throat and goes to open one of the rectangular windows above the built-in sofa, which is covered in tannish-brown vinyl. He jimmies it up a few inches but then immediately shuts it when he gets dust in his eye. My mom walks over and tells him to sit down so she can get a better look. The vinyl squeaks as he takes a seat.
I grab a sandwich from our box lunches. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Of course. I scarf it down in a few bites.
Then I walk a few strides through the narrow kitchen to two side-by-side doors and throw them open.
“Found the bedrooms,” I shout at my parents. But there’s really no reason to raise my voice. Even though they are at the opposite end of the trailer, they’re still basically within spitting distance.
My mom nods at me. Looks like my dad’s eyes are clear of dust, but they’re still glassy and wet. My mom’s are, too. It hurts to see them this way. They look old. And tired. Like they’ve walked here from home. Our real home. Our only home. I remember reading about people who, well, aren’t in our situation—not exactly—but who are displaced, uprooted, and how some of them try to make the best of it, keeping home as a feeling in their hearts, not an actual physical place. But I don’t want to do that. I can’t. It would feel like a betrayal to my old life, to myself. I have one home, and it’s not going to be this place. The government might be able to steal our lives from us, but they can’t steal our thoughts.
I close my eyes for a second and take a halting breath.
I peer into the rooms. The bedroom on the left has a double bed, and the one on the right has bunks. “I think this one is yours.” I point to the room on the left. “Unless you two want the bunks?” My parents look up at me with forced smiles. They’ve barely said a word since sitting down. I imagine they want to say something, I don’t know, parental, but they must feel like I do, like their bodies are full of holes.
I enter the room on the right.
The low metal bunks are pushed up against the wall. The mattresses and pillows have plastic on them. On the opposite wall is a square window that looks onto the mountains in the distance. Below the window are a blue plastic chair and a small desk that drops down from the wall like an airplane tray table. Next to the desk is a tiny round metal sink; in the corner is a closet full of shelves with a clear plastic curtain serving as a door. I swivel around and take a deep breath. The room is about the size of my old bathroom.
I have no idea what to do next. I know I need to busy myself, because if I continue standing here, I’ll slowly fade away until I cease to exist. I wonder if that’s how they did it, the Japanese Americans who were sent to camps in World War II. Maybe they survived by going through the motions. Day by day. Waking. Counting the hours. Eating dust. Sleeping. That’s my immediate plan for now: Get through it. Survive the madness. Keep my eyes open.
I unzip my bag. I neatly refold all my clothes and place them on the shelves. I save some shelf space for toiletries, since the sink barely has room for a small cup and my toothbrush. I also find a spot for my paperbacks Great American Poetry and Macbeth. Neither is exactly in my top five desert-island books, but
I guess I wasn’t discerning when shoving stuff into my duffel. Next, I tear open the bedding package and make up the bottom bunk, saving the other set of sheets. I’m not sure how we do laundry, which might kill me because I love the feel of fresh sheets, but the touch of this internment-chic bedding doesn’t exactly scream high thread count. An oval Mylar mirror hangs above the sink, and when I wash my hands, I notice my grimy face. It’s the dust. I rinse my eyes with cold water and scrub my face until the white washcloth is gray-brown. I wash it with hand soap, then hang it to dry on the towel rack screwed into the wall.
I walk back into the main room. “Where’s the toilet and shower?”
My mom leaves the couch and takes maybe ten short steps into the kitchen and opens two small doors that I thought were cabinets. One is a shower; the other, a toilet.
“I see they spared no expense to incarcerate us,” I say.
My mom hugs me. Tight. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. We had no idea it would come to this.”
I let my mother hold me. When she steps back, her eyes shine with tears. I want to say something to calm her, make her feel a little less horrible, but a tiny black fish-eye camera attached to the ceiling distracts me.
“They’re watching us in here, too? Are we allowed to use the bathroom privately, or are they surveilling our bodily functions as well?” I burn at the violation. I have to get out. The walls of this trailer feel like they’re closing in on me. I can’t breathe. “I’m going to go look around. Maybe I’ll find the laundry room.”
“I’m not sure you should be roaming the grounds. I don’t know if it’s safe.”
“Mom, please. There are tons of people outside. Besides, there are so many armed Exclusion Guards around, it’s not like I can get mugged.”
“The men with guns are the ones I’m worried about,” my mom replies. She turns to look at my dad, who gives me a small smile that looks like it takes some effort. “Fine, but be back in an hour. We don’t want to be late to the orientation.”
I grab a key card and tuck it into my back pocket. “Don’t worry.” Possibly the most ridiculous two words I could ever say to my parents.
I step outside, blinking against the blazing sun.
I walk past row after row of identical Mercury Homes. Little kids play outside, kicking up dust while their parents mill around, faces drawn and blank, fear in their eyes. Not sure what to do or how to be. I can see some of them trying to make the little ones feel comfortable by sporting uneasy smiles whenever a child looks at them. I think about my dad’s smile before I left. It’s impossible for me to understand what it must feel like to be a parent—to know that one of your sacred duties is to protect your child, and then to feel that you’re failing and completely helpless to change that.
“Layla?” I hear my name from behind me.
I turn, raising my hand above my eyes. “Ayesha?” The girl I met at the train station. She runs her hand through her bobbed hair and smiles at me.
“Couldn’t stand it inside anymore, either?”
“It’s like a—”
“Tomb,” she says. She pauses a beat, glancing at a guard as he passes by us. “We’re in the same block, three trailer homes down from you.”
I gesture down the row of Mercury Homes, and she joins me in a slow walk. There are armed guards posted every two blocks. Their fingers aren’t on the triggers of their guns, but it feels that way.
“How do you know where our trailer is?” I ask.
“There’s a directory in the media unit of the trailer,” Ayesha says, then widens her eyes in mock horror. “You mean you haven’t gone through the regulations file yet?”
I smirk. “I was saving the regs file for pre-bedtime viewing. I hear it’s riveting.”
“Total clickbait.”
“Are we allowed to walk anywhere in the camp?”
“I guess. Just don’t walk into the fences or you’ll be shocked. They’re electrified.”
I smirk. “I’m going to put this out there, to be transparent: I can’t have a friendship based solely on puns.”
“What about witty barbs?”
“Add the occasional bon mot and I’m in.” I want to laugh a little, but I don’t have a laugh to give. Light, easy laughter feels lost. Like a phantom emotion. Still, I’m grateful for even the passing sensation.
Two guards on patrol pass by, turning their heads toward us. Without thinking about it, we both walk in the opposite direction.
“Do you know there’s a camera in the Mercury Homes?” I don’t whisper, not exactly, but seeing the guards everywhere makes me feel on edge, so I speak softly. “I mean, how are we supposed to shower?”
“The cameras are only in the common area, not in the bathrooms or bedrooms. And supposedly they don’t record sound. But we probably should assume they actually do. Safer that way. So I guess you really didn’t check out the regs, did you?”
“No. I was busy exploring our internment lodgings. And unpacking.”
“Unpacking? You mean the ten articles of clothing we were allowed to bring?”
“I brought twelve—I’m an amazing packer.”
“Rebel. You should totally have your own reality show: Packing for Uncertainty.”
It’s a joke. It feels both natural and totally inappropriate to joke. Like this whole conversation, really. Every syllable is awkward, and every reaction feels wrong. It doesn’t seem like there’s any right way to simply be in here. Like we’re on a journey with no map, no compass, and no destination.
“Let’s go over there. I think I saw a little garden.” Ayesha directs me down a wide main road that divides the camp into halves. On the map we all received, it’s called the Midway.
“A garden?”
“I think it’s more like a small outcropping of rocks and shrubs.”
We walk down the Midway. I’d call it a road, but there are no cars in the camp—at least none that we’re allowed to drive. There’s a small parking lot to the left of the main entrance, but like everything else, our cars are back home. It’s not until I walk down the Midway, toward what is essentially the back of the camp—the side that faces the mountains, not the road outside the camp—that I realize how large Mobius is. Yet its size is dwarfed by the vastness of the desert around us. There’s noise, but not city noise. No planes overhead that I’ve seen yet. No sirens. And besides the little kids trying to occupy themselves, there’s a lot of eerie silence. Many pairs of eyes that dart about and then are quickly cast downward when guards pass. Tearstained faces. Dusty hems and cuffs. People walking around aimlessly, like Ayesha and I are. Searching. Looking. Wondering if there’s a way out. But all we see are guards and guns and a fence whose sole purpose is to keep us locked in here—that, or kill us.
The back of the camp appears less heavily watched. There are still armed guards walking around, and watchtowers, but it’s a little quieter. And there are evenly spaced orange plastic crowd-control barriers—you know, the kind you sometimes see along parade routes or at outdoor concerts—between the fence and us. Ostensibly, they’re to prevent us from walking right up to the fence and getting electrocuted, but there’s space between them to slip by, and they’re only hip-high. And what about the little kids? I suppose no parent will let their child out of their sight in this place. I pray that none slip away from their parents or think this is a good spot for hide-and-seek. Hopefully, the DANGER—ELECTRIC FENCE signs that show a lightning bolt zapping through a body and that are posted every ten feet will keep both kids and adults away.
The government—the Exclusion Authority—built all of this, this whole camp, under the cover of darkness. I wonder what else they’ve built. What else can they do to us when America isn’t looking?
We are nearly at the end of the camp: nothing but the fence and, beyond that, the desert. Off to the side is the garden—a bit of an overblown name for it, since it’s mostly large, uneven rocks surrounded by pale-green shrubs, the color of eucalyptus. Here and there are dry stalks of yellow flowe
rs that look almost like mustard plants. If this corner were all you could see of the camp, it would be beautiful. Yellow petals, brown dirt, blue sky. If we weren’t prisoners, this place would feel peaceful. If history had no ghosts, I wouldn’t be terrified of what might come next. If. But “ifs” are always loaded, aren’t they?
Ayesha bends low and plucks a small purple flower that’s growing from underneath a rough-surfaced, arrowhead-shaped rock. She takes a seat and twirls the blossom between her thumb and index finger. I wander over to another boulder and kneel in front of it, brushing some loose dirt from its face.
“What are you doing?”
“I think there’s something carved into the stone. Maybe a petroglyph?” I break off a twig and scrape at the dust in the outlines. I use my fingernail to flake off some dirt. I’m parched, and it dawns on me that I shouldn’t stray far from the trailer without water. I give the outline a final brush with my palm and sit back on the hard ground. “Dammit. That doesn’t look prehistoric.”
Ayesha kneels down next to me and reads over my shoulder, “‘S.A. plus T.J.’ I mean, maybe they were, like, really advanced prehistoric peoples. Or maybe aliens?”
“Aliens who etch little hearts into stone in the middle of the California desert. Of course, Occam’s razor. Go with the hypothesis with the fewest assumptions needed. Vandalizing aliens it is.”
I look at Ayesha, who cracks a smile and then lets out a laugh. Then we both start laughing. It’s not even really funny, but my sides hurt, and tears roll down my face. Ayesha leans back against a rock and belly laughs, then covers her face with her hands and begins sobbing. Her shoulders shake. Neither of us laughs anymore.
I don’t know exactly what to do. I put my hand on her knee. “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure a way out of here.”
She sniffles and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “A way out? How? The only way out is through an electric fence.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Don’t give up hope. Not yet. It’s too soon.”
“Don’t worry.” Ayesha sniffs. “I know being scared is a superpower.”