Excerpt
Introduction: What Would You Do?
You’re eating breakfast at the kitchen table. Maybe it’s pancakes. Maybe it’s rice and eggs. Your backpack is ready for school, and your little sister is coloring at the counter. Outside, it looks like any regular day—bright or cloudy, doesn’t matter much. Then there’s a knock at the door.
Your mom answers. The person outside isn’t a friend. It’s someone in uniform, holding papers. Grown-ups talk quietly. A few minutes later, your parents call you into the living room. They don’t smile. Your dad’s holding the paper, but it’s shaking in his hands.
“We have to leave,” your mom says. “In one week.”
You look around the room. The couch you’ve had since forever. The bookshelf with all your favorite stories. The big drawing of a dragon you made in second grade is still taped to the wall. Your dog is asleep in the corner. Leave? Where? Why?
No one really answers those questions. Your parents don’t know either. Just that someone in the government says your family doesn’t get to stay. Because of where your grandparents were born. Because people are scared.
You’ve never broken the law. You were born here. Your parents have jobs. You go to school. Your neighbors like you. None of that matters.
It feels like when a thunderstorm shows up out of nowhere. There’s no time to prepare. You have to decide fast: What do you take when you're only allowed one suitcase?
Not a backpack. Not a suitcase and a box. One suitcase.
Try filling it in your head. Clothes first, right? A few shirts. Pants. Maybe a jacket. Now add pajamas, socks, and shoes. How about your toothbrush? Toothpaste? Soap? That’s already a lot.
Now pick just one toy. One book. One thing that makes you feel safe. That’s it. The rest stays behind.
Your best friend comes to say goodbye. They cry. You want to cry too, but you don’t. You don’t want to leave your school, your dog, your bedroom with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. You ask your parents again why this is happening. They just say, “It’s the law.”
The next day, your teacher acts strange. Not mean, just nervous. She gives you a hug before you leave. That’s not normal.
You walk through your neighborhood and people don’t smile like they usually do. Some avoid your eyes. Others act like nothing is wrong at all. A few say “You’ll be fine” and look away.
At night, your parents whisper. They’re trying to figure out what to do with the car, the business, the family photos. Your mom cries quietly and hopes you don’t hear.
When moving day comes, a truck shows up. It’s not a moving truck like when families buy new houses. This one is plain and gray. Soldiers stand nearby. Your family joins a line of people you recognize—your classmates, the man who owns the corner market, the girl who just made the basketball team.
No one’s talking much. Some kids hold tightly to their parents. Others just stare straight ahead.
You carry your suitcase, heavier than it looked when you packed it. You’re not sure what’s going to happen. No one explains it clearly. Grown-ups keep saying things like “temporary” and “just for now,” but you can tell they don’t believe it either.
You’re loaded onto a train. It smells like metal and oil. The windows are dirty. People try to smile, to comfort each other, but it’s hard. Your seat is crowded. There’s no privacy. You don’t know how long the trip will be.
Later, after hours that feel like days, you arrive in a dusty, dry place. The buildings are all the same—long, plain, wooden structures. The air smells like dirt and something old. Fences stretch around the camp, and you notice guards at every corner.
A number is written on a sign. That’s where you live now.
You sleep on a cot with a thin mattress. The walls are full of cracks. You hear everything your neighbors say at night. The food is strange. Bathrooms are far away and shared with dozens of other people. You’re told when to wake up, when to eat, and when to stay inside.
There’s no dog curled at your feet. No warm light from your favorite lamp. Just rules. Just waiting.
Your parents try to stay strong. They make the bed each day. They whisper about writing letters to the government. They smile when they don’t feel like smiling.
You go to school again, but it’s not the same. The teachers try their best, but there aren’t enough supplies. You sit on benches, not desks. Some kids cry. Others act angry. You don’t always feel like learning. You wonder what your old classmates are doing right now.
You’re eating breakfast at the kitchen table. Maybe it’s pancakes. Maybe it’s rice and eggs. Your backpack is ready for school, and your little sister is coloring at the counter. Outside, it looks like any regular day—bright or cloudy, doesn’t matter much. Then there’s a knock at the door.
Your mom answers. The person outside isn’t a friend. It’s someone in uniform, holding papers. Grown-ups talk quietly. A few minutes later, your parents call you into the living room. They don’t smile. Your dad’s holding the paper, but it’s shaking in his hands.
“We have to leave,” your mom says. “In one week.”
You look around the room. The couch you’ve had since forever. The bookshelf with all your favorite stories. The big drawing of a dragon you made in second grade is still taped to the wall. Your dog is asleep in the corner. Leave? Where? Why?
No one really answers those questions. Your parents don’t know either. Just that someone in the government says your family doesn’t get to stay. Because of where your grandparents were born. Because people are scared.
You’ve never broken the law. You were born here. Your parents have jobs. You go to school. Your neighbors like you. None of that matters.
It feels like when a thunderstorm shows up out of nowhere. There’s no time to prepare. You have to decide fast: What do you take when you're only allowed one suitcase?
Not a backpack. Not a suitcase and a box. One suitcase.
Try filling it in your head. Clothes first, right? A few shirts. Pants. Maybe a jacket. Now add pajamas, socks, and shoes. How about your toothbrush? Toothpaste? Soap? That’s already a lot.
Now pick just one toy. One book. One thing that makes you feel safe. That’s it. The rest stays behind.
Your best friend comes to say goodbye. They cry. You want to cry too, but you don’t. You don’t want to leave your school, your dog, your bedroom with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. You ask your parents again why this is happening. They just say, “It’s the law.”
The next day, your teacher acts strange. Not mean, just nervous. She gives you a hug before you leave. That’s not normal.
You walk through your neighborhood and people don’t smile like they usually do. Some avoid your eyes. Others act like nothing is wrong at all. A few say “You’ll be fine” and look away.
At night, your parents whisper. They’re trying to figure out what to do with the car, the business, the family photos. Your mom cries quietly and hopes you don’t hear.
When moving day comes, a truck shows up. It’s not a moving truck like when families buy new houses. This one is plain and gray. Soldiers stand nearby. Your family joins a line of people you recognize—your classmates, the man who owns the corner market, the girl who just made the basketball team.
No one’s talking much. Some kids hold tightly to their parents. Others just stare straight ahead.
You carry your suitcase, heavier than it looked when you packed it. You’re not sure what’s going to happen. No one explains it clearly. Grown-ups keep saying things like “temporary” and “just for now,” but you can tell they don’t believe it either.
You’re loaded onto a train. It smells like metal and oil. The windows are dirty. People try to smile, to comfort each other, but it’s hard. Your seat is crowded. There’s no privacy. You don’t know how long the trip will be.
Later, after hours that feel like days, you arrive in a dusty, dry place. The buildings are all the same—long, plain, wooden structures. The air smells like dirt and something old. Fences stretch around the camp, and you notice guards at every corner.
A number is written on a sign. That’s where you live now.
You sleep on a cot with a thin mattress. The walls are full of cracks. You hear everything your neighbors say at night. The food is strange. Bathrooms are far away and shared with dozens of other people. You’re told when to wake up, when to eat, and when to stay inside.
There’s no dog curled at your feet. No warm light from your favorite lamp. Just rules. Just waiting.
Your parents try to stay strong. They make the bed each day. They whisper about writing letters to the government. They smile when they don’t feel like smiling.
You go to school again, but it’s not the same. The teachers try their best, but there aren’t enough supplies. You sit on benches, not desks. Some kids cry. Others act angry. You don’t always feel like learning. You wonder what your old classmates are doing right now.