This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Monica poked Cynthia awake with an umbrella.
“You didn’t shower,” stated Monica.
“Shit!” cried Cynthia as she lurched into consciousness. She furiously rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “I was going to come onto Carlos!”
“No one wants you coming onto them if you don’t shower,” said Monica with a frown. “I could smell you from the other side of the door. Please go shower.”
She dropped the umbrella and walked out of the room.
Monica and Carlos were deep into a conversation about the likelihood of AI murdering everyone on the planet when Cynthia emerged from her room in an oversized T-shirt and jean shorts, her hair wrapped in a towel.
“Good morning, princess,” said Monica between chews. She sat at the kitchen island eating a mushroom omelet, a glass of orange juice by her side.
Carlos was busy at the stove. Cynthia cocked an eyebrow at the sight of his thighs stretching the bottom of a pair of running shorts.
“You want breakfast?” he asked upon turning around.
“Huh? Nothing!” exclaimed Cynthia.
Monica and Carlos gave her curious looks.
“Do you want some food?” said Carlos slowly.
“Isn’t it way past breakfast?” she asked.
“Sure,” he answered. “But it’s 8 AM somewhere. Here. Have an omelet.”
He served her a plate, brought it to the island, and sat at a stool.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She took the seat opposite his and stared at her plate to distract from the biceps bulging underneath his fitted long sleeve. “How long have you guys been up?”
“I woke up at 10,” said Carlos. “Mailed out the soil and air samples. We should have the results back tomorrow.”
“Cool.”
Cynthia took a bite of her omelet. It was pure fluffy, cheesy, savory goodness. The perfect post late-night crossfire meal.
“Mmmmm!” she exclaimed. “Not bad, Carlos! Did you put Manchego in this thing?”
“You got it!” he answered with a grin.
“What about you?” asked Cynthia, turning to Monica. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Got up at 9 and checked if there was any reporting about last night’s Battle of the Bulge Part Two: Moronic Boogaloo. The governor’s office is claiming it was all just routine demolition. No one seems to be contradicting her yet.”
“That’s what happens when you hollow out the Fourth Estate,” quipped Cynthia with a mouthful of eggs. “What’s on the docket for today?”
“I think it’d be helpful to talk to a Seabreeze Ridge resident who lived through the Bulging,” said Carlos. “I’d like to have some context on what happened before and during the event. It could prove useful for trying to figure out what caused it.”
“Ah, OK. We can reach out to the woman I used as a source in my first article,” offered Cynthia. “She lived smack in the middle of the Bulge and stayed there right until it destroyed her house.”
Monica perked up.
“Does she speak Spanish?” she asked.
“Yeah,” answered Cynthia. “But we spoke in English. She’s Colombian, I think. Came here with her parents when she was 12.”
Monica furrowed her brow.
And how old is she now?”
“Mid 20s, probably.”
“Uhuh, OK,” Her voice turned serious.
Afternoon light reflected off the Atlantic and danced across Monica’s face. Cynthia thought she had gorgeous skin, with barely a blemish or wrinkle. But her dark eyes were guarded, even when she was cracking jokes. They had a sad, weary quality to them, like she carried an invisible weight she didn’t want anyone to see. Cynthia wondered how old Monica was. She didn’t really know very much about her other than the few snippets she’d let drop during their misadventures.
“I should probably come along for this one,” announced Monica.
“What do you mean by ‘come along’?” asked Cynthia. “I thought we’d just call her from a payphone or something.”
“Not a good idea. First off, you won’t find a payphone outside a museum. Secondly, Santos and Elzos are probably monitoring the communications of everyone you’ve talked to in the last six months. This has to be an in-person thing.”
Cynthia frowned.
“Wouldn’t they also have someone watching her? Like, sitting outside her place in a car or something?”
“Almost certainly not. Maybe outside your parents’ house, but they’d have to hire 100 goons to physically monitor people not in your immediate inner circle. It’s just way too expensive. That’s why they usually elect to only track phones.”
“So, what are we supposed to do?” asked Carlos. “Just show up at her place?”
“Exactly that,” replied Monica. She drained the last drops of her orange juice, rose from her stool, and whipped her phone out of a hoodie pocket. “Cynthia, what’s this woman’s name?”
“Rosa Alarcón,” she answered through the last bite of her omelet. “But how are we supposed to find her? I don’t have an address or even the slightest idea what neighborhood she’s staying…”
“Aaaaand here we are.”
Monica glanced up from her phone, concluding her search before Cynthia had the chance to complete her sentence.
“Rosa Alarcón. 23 years old. Former resident of Seabreeze Ridge. Currently living in a FEMA-sponsored motel next to the airport. Is this our girl?”
Monica flashed her screen at Cynthia, which showed a petite woman with an upturned nose, round cheeks, and a pixie cut with purple dyed tips.
“Yeah, that’s her,” answered a stunned Cynthia. She slowly turned her head to Carlos, whose awestruck gaze mirrored her own.
“Cool. Alright folks, finish your food and let’s get rolling. Clock’s ticking.”
The Ocean Vista Motel was a shabby establishment located six miles from the nearest significant body of water—an irony not lost on the 200 former Seabreeze residents who inhabited it. Wide-bodied passenger airliners buzzed overhead every few minutes on their way to touching down on Miami International Airport’s runway just behind the parking lot. The two-story cinder block structure’s original white paint job had been tinged light brown by six decades of accumulated jet fumes. Exposed rebar poked through cracks along its open staircase and catwalk while the second-story iron banister was so rusted it seemed the next stiff wind would knock the whole thing over. Across the street was a self-storage facility where either the maintenance team hadn’t changed the fluorescent bulbs in a while or someone had decided on a cheeky bit of vandalism, because the 10-foot-high entrance sign read “Pubic Storage.”
Monica pulled her van into a parking space.
“Jesus,” muttered Carlos with a glance at the motel’s dilapidated front. “This is where they’re keeping the Seabreeze Ridge refugees?”
“Were you expecting the Ritz?” replied Monica.
“If the Bulging had happened in Coral Gables, I bet you anything they would’ve housed them in the Ritz,” said Cynthia, referring to Miami’s much wealthier tree-lined neighborhood.
“Yeah, well, people in Coral Gables have enough money to make political donations,” retorted Monica, undoing her seatbelt. She grabbed what looked like a metal cigar box from behind her seat. “These people don’t. They’ve been ignored by local and state leaders for their entire lives because they were poor. Why would that change now that they have even less?”
Walking through the first floor, the three noticed clothes, bags, and other personal belongings strewn through the hallway. A small crowd of people by an ancient vending machine consoled a crying woman.
“What the hell happened here?” asked Carlos as he climbed the stairs and did his best to not touch the rusty banister.
“Nothing good,” replied Monica darkly.
They approached a room with a broken door frame. Monica frowned.
“You two hold back a second,” she said, stopping Cynthia and Carlos ten feet from the slightly ajar door. “Let me take point.”
They nodded. Monica took a deep breath and knocked.
A small, young woman opened the door. Her eyes were bloodshot. Streaks of eyeliner ran down her cheeks past the bob of her short-cropped pink hair.
“Rosa?” asked Monica.
“¿Qué quieres?”[1] demanded the woman.
Monica opened the metal box she carried in her arms. On the inside of the lid, just above the hinge, was a handwritten sign that read, “Put your phone inside the box and I’ll give you $1,000. You can keep all three.”
Monica reached into her hoodie and pulled out a tight roll of $100 bills.
Rosa squinted at Monica.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Monica shook her head and handed over the bills. Rosa undid the rubber band and counted them. She gave Monica another side-eye before reaching into her pocket, removing an old Samsung with a cracked screen, and placing it gingerly inside the box. Monica closed the lid and handed it to Rosa.
“That’s a Faraday box,” explained Monica. “It’ll block la migra and anyone else from listening to our conversation.”
“Who said I want to talk to you?” asked Rosa, deep skepticism etched on her face.
“Hi, Rosa!” exclaimed Cynthia, who approached with a raised hand. “I’m Cynthia—the reporter. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago about your experience during the Bulging.”
The look on Rosa’s face morphed from surprise to recognition to blinding fury.
“¡Malparida hijueputa!”[2] yelled Rosa. She strode into her room and slammed the door, which rebounded off the doorframe.
Cynthia stared at Carlos and then Monica in shock.
“What… just happened?” she asked.
Monica closed her eyes and shook her head.
“I told you to let me take point…”
The door flew back open with a bang.
“I’ll tell you exactly what just happened, carechimba,”[1] Rosa, rage incarnate, charged at Cynthia and pointed a finger in her face. “La migra burst into our room last night when I was working and kidnapped my mom, my dad, and my baby brother! He’s a citizen but they grabbed him anyway!”
Cynthia backed up, terrified, hands in the air. Rosa followed close by, angry tears streaming down her face.
“¡Se los llevaron todos! Sin explicación, sin dejarme la menor idea de dónde los secuestraron. ¡Me robaron todo, absolutamente todo que tenía en el mundo! ¿Me entiendes, cabrona? Porque tienes cara de estúpida.”[2]
“I’m re- I’m really sorry,” stuttered Cynthia. She backed into Carlos, who held her by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t really speak Spanish. I can understand it a bit but you’re talking really fast so I can’t make out…”
“¡Latina arrepentida![3]Of course you don’t speak Spanish!” cried Rosa, throwing her hands in the air. She stalked a few steps toward the room before turning back around. “Fine! I’ll explain it to you in English, gringa!”
Cynthia winced. A few people from adjacent rooms stepped out to see what the commotion was about.
“La migra busted into everyone’s rooms, wrecked the few belongings we still had, and took dozens of people last night, including my entire family, without telling anyone where they’re holding them. I have no idea where my 50-year-old parents or 10-year-old brother are now, and it’s your fucking fault!”
She jabbed another finger at Cynthia, who looked side to side, mouth open in confusion.
“And now—this is really funny—now they’re going to move those of us they haven’t kidnapped onto a landfill!”
Rosa craned her head to the sky and laughed.
“A landfill! Our houses, our lives are destroyed but they want us to live on top of literal fucking garbage! Hilarious! That’s what they think of us. Whose idea of a sick joke was this?”
“I’m sorry. I really, really am,” said Cynthia. “It’s horrible what happened to you and your family. I just don’t understand why this is my fault…”
“Because you wrote the fucking story!” retorted Rosa. “You made powerful people in this state look bad. Did you honestly believe there wouldn’t be any consequences? Did you really think they wouldn’t try to fuck some else over in their anger? They might not be able to hurt you directly, but they can definitely hurt me, hurt us.”
She gestured at her neighbors in the hallway and parking lot.
“They always lash out at us when they need a scapegoat to blame, some defenseless fucking dog they and their maldito fucking followers can kick when they don’t get their way on something. And guess what, puta, we’re the fucking perros they kick. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.”
Rosa shook, furious and panicked at her own powerlessness.
“Why don’t we go inside?” suggested Monica, glancing at the onlookers. “Trust me, for your safety and ours.”
Rosa’s face and shoulders dropped.
“Do whatever the fuck you want,” she said, exhaustion cracking her voice.
Rosa walked back into the room, leaving the door ajar. Carlos released Cynthia, who stumbled forward from the magnitude of the verbal assault.
Monica addressed Cynthia in firm but not unkind terms.
“Listen, you need to keep your mouth shut in there. You have no idea what she’s going through. I’m going to talk. You’re not. Got it?”
“I’m mean, this is terrible,” began Cynthia. “My parents are immigrants too and I can’t even imagine…”
“You’re right,” said Monica. “You can’t imagine. It’s not the same. And if you don’t realize that, then you need to stay out here.”
Monica entered the room, followed by Carlos, who squeezed Cynthia’s arm on his way past. Cynthia stood outside, alone, watching the setting sun spread warm crimsons and oranges around the clouds obscuring its descent below the horizon. She braced herself and entered, doing her best to close the door shut behind her.
The interior looked like it had been ransacked by a barbarian horde. Both queen mattresses were askew on their box springs. Shirts, shoes, and underwear haphazardly covered the floor so only small patches of stained carpet peaked through. The nightstand and dresser drawers were all open. An overturned lamp in the corner cast shadows across the popcorn roof.
Cynthia pictured her parents slammed on the floor, unknown men in body armor with knees to their backs, a confused and terrified child screaming in the corner in a stranger’s arms. She shuddered at the thought.
Rosa sat on the corner of the far bed facing the wall, her back to Cynthia. Monica was on the floor next to her. Carlos sat on the near bed with his phone out, ready to take notes. He gestured to Cynthia to sit next to him, but she shook her head. It didn’t feel right to further desecrate this pillaged space. So, she crossed her arms and hovered by the door, unsure of what else to do.
“Mira, hermana,” began Monica. She placed a hand on Rosa’s jittering knee, calming it. “Yo soy DACA. Entiendo perfectamente el pánico que sentías y el terror que sientes ahora. La migra se llevó a mi tío y a mis dos primos después que pasaron veinte años en este país. Mis padres todavía no tienen sus papeles.”[4]
Rosa looked silently down at Monica, tears streaming down her face. Monica walked to the bathroom and came back with a handful of tissues. Rosa took them and loudly blew her nose. Monica crossed her legs on the floor.
“Te voy a ayudar. Te prometo. Dime los nombres de tus padres y tu hermano.”[5]
“Mis padres son Rogelio y María Marta Alarcón,” replied Rosa between sniffles. “Mi hermano… mi hermano…”[6]
She broke into tears and covered her face with the tissues. Rosa rubbed her back.
“Está bien. Está bien, hermana. Tómate tu tiempo, querida.”[7] Monica’s voice was calm, soothing, and pained.
Ragged moans rose from deep in Rosa’s chest. Cynthia redirected the urge to run over and hug her into shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Monica kept rubbing Rosa’s back until the sobs subsided.
“Mi hermano se llama Quincy Alarcón.”[8]
“Perfecto, gracias hermana,” said Monica. “Solo dame un segundo.”[9]
Monica pulled out her phone. She typed and scrolled manically for half a minute.
“¡Los encontré!”[10] she exclaimed.
“¿Dónde están?”[11] Rosa swiveled on the bed so she was face to face with Monica, her eyes hungry, pleading for information.
“Los tres están en el Krome Detention Center. Siguen juntos. No los separaron. Baja la aplicación Signal y te mandaré un mensaje de texto con un número que podrás llamar para contactarlos. También te enviaré el contacto de un excelente abogado quien trabaja en bufete de inmigración. Compártelo con los otros sobrevivientes en el hotel. Me parece bastante posible que él podrá iniciar una demanda colectiva pro-bono para suspender las deportaciones.”[12]
Rosa lunged for her phone in the Faraday box, but Monica stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Acuérdate que nos están escuchando,” she glanced at the ceiling and made a circle above her head with an index finger. “Espera hasta que nos vayamos.”[13]
Rosa nodded and flung her arms around Monica’s neck. The latter was initially surprised but returned the embrace.
“Gracias, gracias, hermana,” whispered Rosa. “Pensaba que mi mundo entero se había derrumbado. Por lo menos me diste esperanza.”[14]
Monica ran her hand down the back of Rosa’s head.
“Claro, no te preocupes. También te mandaré mi contacto personal. Si, por cualquier razón, los abogados no te pueden ayudar,” her eyes flashed steely determination. “Te prometo que yo sí te ayudaré.”[15]
Rosa released Monica and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrists.
“¿Bueno, qué quieren de mí?”[16]
“Mi amigo, el que está sentado en la otra cama,” Monica gestured at Carlos with her head. “Él quiere hacerte un par de preguntas sobre tus experiencias durante el surgimiento del Bulge. ¿Qué piensas de cambiar al inglés para que él nos entienda?”[17]
Rosa nodded in agreement.
“Listo, pero primero, ella tiene que irse.”[18]
Her eyes shot daggers at Cynthia.
“Did you understand that, gringa?”
Cynthia nodded silently, unable to meet Rosa’s withering stare. She walked out the door into a chilly February night. Cynthia wrapped her arms around herself, more to sooth the palpable, icy stab of guilt and sorrow she felt in her chest than to protect against the cutting wind. She walked in a daze down the hallway, passing the hotel’s residents without even registering their existence. She stumbled down the stairs, found a small triangular alcove underneath where prying eyes wouldn’t find her, and flung herself against the wall.
The back of her head hit the concrete hard, obscuring her vision with a flurry of dark spots, but she didn’t mind. She deserved far worse. Cynthia slumped down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, a few stray pebbles digging into her shorts. She pressed her full weight onto them, hoping they’d cut her skin. Cynthia hugged her legs, placed her face between her knees, and cried harder than she ever had before.
She had no idea how long she sat there when Monica found her.
“Cynthia! Cynthia! Hey, can you hear me?” she exclaimed.
Cynthia raised her head in surprise. Tears had carved two parallel tracks down her face. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair a disheveled, matted mess.
“Oh boy,” exhaled Monica. She slumped down the wall next to Cynthia and stared straight ahead.
“Rosa told us that she felt a small earthquake before the Bulging,” said Monica. “Carlos said that could be important.”
Cynthia didn’t answer. She just placed her head back between her knees.
“Look,” continued Monica, her customary matter-of-fact tone tinged with empathy. “To whatever degree you’re actually guilty and not just the target of Rosa’s understandable pent-up frustration, I’m probably equally at fault because I’ve been helping you every step of the way. For what it’s worth, neither of us detained that family. Santos did that on her own accord. She made the decision to act like a monster. Not us.”
Monica paused, waiting to see if Cynthia had registered anything she said. A minute passed in silence. She started again.
“My conscience is clear on this. I’m horrified by what happened to Rosa’s family. I feel it far more personally than you or Carlos ever could. But it’s all about your motivation, what you’re trying to accomplish and why. That’s what matters. That’s what will let you live with yourself—or not.”
Cynthia raised her head.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Monica clenched her jaw. Her nostrils flared and lips curled into a scowl.
“To fuck over Santos,” she growled. “Make her pay for everything she’s done to this state’s people, animals, and land.
“Yeah, well, I was only doing this for myself, for my own selfishness, all in the hope of attaining some kind of success, some tiny shred of stability. I’m a piece of shit…”
Her voice trailed off as her head burrowed back into her legs.
“Alright,” Monica stood up. “History is full of pieces of shit who did some good despite their shittiness.”
Monica hooked her forearms underneath Cynthia’s armpits and lifted her to her feet. She put Cynthia’s arm around her shoulder and half-dragged, half-carried her to the van. The side door opened automatically, and Monica placed her gently on the seat.
[1] “What do you want?”
[2] “Fucking bitch!”
[3] Literally translates to “cunt-face.”
[4] “They took them all! Without explanation, without leaving the slightest hint about where they took them. They stole everything, absolutely everything I had in the world! Do you understand, asshole? Because you’re looking at me like an idiot.”
[5] “Latina traitor!”
[6] “Look, sister. I’m DACA. I perfectly understand the panic you’ve felt and the terror you’re feeling now. Immigration services took my uncle and cousins after they spent 20 years in the country. My parents still don’t have their papers.”
[7] “I’m going to help you. I promise you. Tell me your parents’ and brother’s names.”
[8] “My parents are Rogelio and Maria Marta. My brother… my brother…”
[9] “It’s OK. It’s OK, sister. Take your time, my dear.
[10] “My brother’s name is Quincy Alarcón.
[11] “Perfect, thank you sister. Just give me a second.
[12] “I found them!”
[13] “Where are they?”
[14] “All three are at the Krome Detention Center. They’re still together. They haven’t separated them. Download Signal and I’ll text you a number you’ll be able to use to contact them. I’ll also send you the contact of an excellent lawyer who works at an immigration firm. Share it with the other survivors in the hotel. I think he’ll be able to file a pro bono class action lawsuit that’ll halt the deportations.”
[15] “Remember that they’re listening to us. Wait until we’ve left.”
[16] “Thank you, thank you, sister. I thought my entire world had collapsed. At least you gave me hope.”
[17] “Of course, don’t worry about it. I’ll also send you my personal contact. If, for whatever reason, the lawyers can’t help you, I promise that I will.”
[18] “Well, what do you want from me?”
[19] “My friend, the guy on the other bed, wants to ask you a couple of questions about your experience during the Bulging. What do you say we switch to English so he can understand us?”
[20] “OK, but first, she has to leave.”
