CHAPTER 34

Into the unknown: the future

The bed creaks under Santiago’s shivering body. Maybe it’s not a bed, but a coffin.

If only this whole death thing would hurry up and happen. Then he’d be back with Mami. Things would be fine, and the screaming would finally stop.

Where is he, anyway? Some kind of transitional realm into the “other” world? Has to be. The light hurts his eyes. His body aches—tired and stiff, but not enough to merit screaming. And his throat, so raw—no strength to scream.

So, who’s screaming? Or yelling, rather? Not him. The noise hurts his head. Harsh and scolding. Coming from a man, not a teenager. An older white man with white hair, white mustache, and a white coat. Someone Santiago has seen before.

“Extreme negligence on your part,” the voice says in English, though the words would have been very similar in Spanish.

Then: “A human… his life.”

Wait. Did someone “lose” their life? Someone’s dead? Is he the someone? Is it possible to die without knowing it?

A fleece blanket covers his body. Underneath him, something molds around his back and head. A bed and a pillow. Comfort. He’s definitely comfortable. So he could be dead.

The voice belongs to the doctor who examined him on arrival, his eyes still red, this time filled with rage. The bodies he’s talking to become clear: Herrera, Castillo, Patterson, and other guards he doesn’t recognize.

He must still be at the center. His head pounding, limbs arching, body shaking. No purgatory, just inferno.

The doctor continues to yell, now saying something about not being able to do his job if the guards don’t do theirs. “Not surprisingly, the family is pressing charges.”

Even though the doctor only speaks English, the line about pressing charges is familiar—Santiago heard it the few times he watched a courtroom show on daytime televisión. The family of the dead is suing.

A lump presses against his already raw throat. Someone has definitely died. But not him—no one in his family would sue on his behalf.

The doctor issues further insults before picking up a towel and throwing it at Patterson’s face. Grabs a gray sweatshirt and flings it at Herrera. Finally, the doctor waves his hand in dismissal. Quick, eyes close. See nothing, know nothing. If the guards know he witnessed the scolding, he’ll be truly dead.

His throat burns as he breathes through his mouth. He coughs and then chokes from the pain. Things hurt a lot less when he was dead.

When he is sure the guards have left, he slowly opens his eyes again and forces out words. “¿Dónde estoy?”

Instead of answering, the doctor holds out a plastic cup full of some red syrup. It tastes like a melted lollipop coating a bitter insect, but it does soothe his throat.

“Where I?” Santiago tries again, this time in English.

“Infirmary.”

“¿Eh?”

“Medical room,” the doctor clarifies.

The same machines hum as they did when he received his entry physical, the same sterile atmosphere as before. Except this time a book (his book!) sits on a table, and two cots are positioned against the wall—his, and an empty one.

A tousled blanket remains on the empty cot. Someone had been in it.

Consuelo enters the room bearing a tray laden with food. Santiago turns his head to follow the delicious smell, using every bit of strength to push himself to his elbows and then to sitting.

She places the tray on his lap. “Sopa de pollo. I made it especially for you and the other sick…” Her voice trails off, and she excuses herself from the room as tears run down her face.

Santiago’s hand reaches for her. Wait, don’t leave. He lets out a hacking cough instead.

“Who boy died?” Santiago asks in English once he’s able to talk again. “What he name?”

The doctor returns to his side with another cup, this time holding a long white pill, a round peach-colored one, and a capsule. “Mendez. Lorén Mendez.”

The name isn’t familiar. Maybe it’s one of the little boys. Or someone from his section he only knows by nickname. But the doctor doesn’t seem to be in a chatty mood, going through paperwork and scowling. Maybe Santiago is better off not knowing right now.

The soup, cool enough to eat, hot enough to soothe, tastes a gloria. Tender pieces of poultry cover the bottom of the bowl along with real carrots and peas.

On the tray, Consuelo included a soft, warm roll with a pat of butter, an orange and a banana, a purple Jell-O cup, and a glass of grapefruit juice. His shrunken stomach cries for him to stop, while the rest of his body yearns for the nourishment. He’s never swallowed pills before, but they go down nicely hidden within the Jell-O.

Before finishing the juice, he raises the glass toward the empty cot.

“It should’ve been me, Lorén. I could’ve been with my mami, and no one would care.”