CHAPTER 32
“¡Basta! Get off of me!”
Santiago sat up so quickly his head spun and his eyes struggled to focus in the semi-light. He was back at la malvada’s house. Hands shaking, he reached for the wall behind him to steady himself.
Where would the blow come from? He couldn’t see her.
Because she wasn’t here. Only teenage boys. And guards.
“Mamá! Mamá, come back!” The screaming continued.
All the boys were now awake, muttering and cursing the screamer. Santiago’s heart still pounded, even though it hadn’t been he who screamed. He clung to his book like a safety blanket.
Herrera stomped toward a figure thrashing on the floor as if he were having a seizure. All around the boy, the metallic blanket lay in shreds.
“Wake up, you loco.” The guard kicked him. The thrashing boy leaped to his feet.
Herrera jumped back and let out a high-pitched squeal. The screaming boy stood there staring at the guard. Slowly the boy turned in a tight circle to glare at the crowded room.
Santiago gasped. It was Llorón, the boy who’d made fun of his book. His wide black eyes looked possessed. And at the same time empty.
“He’s still asleep,” someone whispered. The room looked on in silence.
“Do something,” Herrera told his colleague, a new guard Santiago didn’t know.
“Like what? You’re not supposed to wake up a sleepwalker. Something about the shock could damage their brain.”
Llorón started walking around the crowded room, shuffling his feet like a zombie, though looking more like a ghost. None of the teenagers dared utter a word.
“Maybe we can ease him back to the floor,” Herrera said with false bravado.
The other guard screeched. “Are you crazy? You can’t touch him. You want to get sued for misconduct?”
“Llama al médico,” Herrera ordered.
“No one’s on duty. Budget cuts.”
Llorón continued weaving around the bodies, causing the boys to squirm out of the way. He came within a meter of Santiago, staring at him with empty eyes.
Santiago set his book down and rose slowly to his feet, not wanting to look Llorón in the eye. He extended his arm and pointed to the floor.
“Acuéstate, right now,” Santiago ordered in the tone he used when his cousins got out of hand.
Llorón seemed to understand. “¿Y Mamá?”
“She’s coming,” Santiago lied, keeping his voice firm.
“They killed Papi. Trying to cross. They shot him.”
“I know,” Santiago said, even though he didn’t.
“They tried to shoot us, too. Mamá and me. Then they took Mamá away.”
“Yes, but you’re safe now so lie down,” Santiago insisted.
“Here?”
“Sí, ahora.”
Llorón circled the floor like a dog before settling down on his side with his arms under his head and his sightless eyes still open. I should have told him to sleep somewhere else.
“Now close your eyes,” Santiago said. “Keep them closed and Mamá will come.”
Finally he shut his eyes, and Santiago exhaled, crumbling back to his corner. A few seconds later Llorón let out a part snort, part moan—a sound that any other night would have had the boys laughing and trying to mimic it.
Santiago motioned to the guards, pointed to his metallic blanket, and then to the snoring Llorón. Understanding, Herrera hurried to get the sleepwalker a new sheet, while the other guard blinked at Santiago and gave him the smallest smile, the closest any guard came to thanking an inhabitant. Good enough.
Santiago pulled his own blanket over his head. While drowning out the perpetual light, it did nothing to shield the snores. But snores were better than screams, reality checks better than nightmares. The next morning when Llorón remembered nothing of the night terrors and teased Santiago again about his girly book, Santiago kept his mouth shut. If that didn’t make him the star candidate to get into foster care, he didn’t know what did.
The volunteer lawyers finally returned to the center at the end of January. Except Señora Bárbara wasn’t among them.
“Con permiso,” Santiago asked the elderly lawyer with the age spots on his hands and face. “Is Señora Bárbara coming tomorrow?”
The lawyer tilted his head back to look up at Santiago. “No, mi’jo. She’s not returning for a long while. She just had herself a beautiful baby boy. Bless them both.”
Santiago remembered her pregnancy, of course, but hadn’t realized she wouldn’t return once the baby came. He wanted to feel happy for her, but betrayal overpowered him. She had promised she’d be back. She had also said he’d be in foster care in a couple of weeks, six weeks ago.
“Do you know—I mean—what about my applications?” he stammered. “She put me on the list for foster care and other facilities several weeks ago, and I… well, I’m still here.”
“Don’t worry, mi’jo. The interns at the office have taken care of everyone’s paperwork.” The old man pushed up his glasses and gave him a pitying look. “Pero desgraciadamente, these things can take several months—for some people, years. The government wants solutions ahora, but then takes forever in pushing forth action.”
“What about writing letters? To try to convince them.” This couldn’t be it, not after everything. “I’m a good kid. Always helping. Ask the guards how good I am.”
“Every individual’s situation is different.” The man shook his head. “There are over thirteen thousand youths in facilities all over the country, and this is one of the better centers. Many are living in tents, with metal fences like cages. Lo siento, but it’s out of our control.”
Weeks ago he had thought staying at the center wouldn’t be so bad. But the idea of foster care had changed everything. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up; he shouldn’t have planned for the future. He’d made the same mistake with María Dolores.
“Please tell Señora Bárbara I congratulate her on her new baby.” The sharp edges of his favorite book, tucked into his waistband for safekeeping, dug into his chest and groin. He shuffled toward the door and started the line to go outside. It gave him something to do.
An asthmatic boy who’d barely been at the center for two weeks skipped around in a circle like a little kid. “Hey, guess what? I’ve been approved to go into foster care tomorrow. Can you believe it?”
Santiago turned away and pulled the back of his sweatshirt over his head like a hood. Sick kids always seemed to get the favoritism. A part of him wished the boy’s foster family would be despicable.