Chapter 15

I woke before the sun, blinking into the soft blue-gray light filtering through the curtains. The house was still quiet, but I could hear the faint creak of footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, Luz eased open the door and slipped inside. Her eyes were wide and unsettled.

“I had a dream,” she said softly, curling into the blanket at my feet like a cat seeking warmth. “About Mexico. About them.”

I sat up and reached out, resting my hand lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t need to explain. I still carried too many dreams of my own. Broken fences. Footsteps in the dark. The sound of boots in gravel.

Down the hall, Isa’s door creaked open. “You too?” she said, her voice raspy with sleep. “I’ve had a couple like that. Nothing specific, just ... feelings. Like they’re still out there.”

Marisol emerged last, already dressed, her hair up in a quick twist. She looked at us—her eyes tired, but steady.

“We should probably talk to someone,” she said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “Not just a doctor, but like ... a counselor. All of us. Trauma like this, it doesn’t just fade.”

No one argued.

Breakfast was quiet but warm. Ellie made eggs and toast, humming under her breath like she was trying to will the house into calm. After we’d eaten, Marisol turned to me.

“You need clothes,” she said bluntly. “Again. You’re not going to this press conference looking like a drifter.”

“Heard that before,” I said, raising my hands. “But let me pay you back. And I owe you from before. I’ll have access to everything tomorrow.”

She waved me off. “We’ll deal with it later.”

A few reporters were still out front, camped on the sidewalk with cameras slung over their shoulders like lazy rifles. Marisol watched them through the blinds, then ducked into the hallway and came back out in a hoodie and oversized sunglasses.

“I’ll go alone,” she said. “Less attention.”

“You sure?”

“I’m used to this town. I’ll be fast.”

And then she was gone.

Back in the living room, Isa had taken over the dining table, papers spread out in front of her, tapping her pen against her lip. “Okay,” she muttered, “if I were a charismatic young survivor speaking to a room full of reporters and city officials, what would I say?”

I smiled. “You’re gonna kill it, Isa.”

She looked up, a trace of nerves showing through. “I just want to do it right. I want them to know who we are. What we went through. I want to make it clear that Brendan was with us, not—” She waved her pen, searching for the word. “Not something else.”

“I get it,” I said. “Thank you.”

Luz was at the kitchen counter with a notepad, scribbling and crossing things out. “I’m going to keep it short,” she said without looking up. “But I want to say something.”

“You’ll do great,” Isa assured her. “You’re the soul of this whole group.”

Luz snorted softly. “No pressure.”

Marisol returned an hour later with a bag of clothes for me—dress shirt, slacks, even new shoes. I changed in the bathroom and came out looking halfway respectable.

Isa gave me a once-over. “Hey, hey, look who cleans up.”

“Watch it,” I said. “I’ll start calling it ‘soccer’ again.”

By early afternoon, we were all dressed and ready, the four of us in our best attempt at looking composed and rested. The storm had passed. The buzz of press vehicles idling outside grew louder again. All of the parents gathered by the door—Beto tightening his tie, Ellie adjusting Luz’s collar, Alicia brushing lint off Isa’s blazer, Carmen—who’d come over to join us—double-checking her purse.

Marisol looked at me, then at her sister and cousin.

“Let’s do this,” she said.

We stepped out together, into the heat, the flashes, the eyes. We weren’t just survivors anymore—we were something else now. A story people wanted to hear.

And we were finally ready to tell it.

The gym was packed.

Rows of folding chairs filled the hardwood floor, most occupied by local and national media crews. Cameras on tripods lined the perimeter like artillery, red lights blinking, lenses aimed. Microphones were stacked two and three deep on the podium like a bouquet of plastic flowers. A few recognizable faces were milling about—news anchors I’d seen on TV, people I’d never dreamed would one day be asking me a question.

We stood behind the makeshift stage curtain—just some old maroon fabric partitioning off the corner of the gym—watching the frenzy as it unfolded.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “This is...”

“Madness,” Luz finished beside me, her hand tightening around mine.

I looked at the others. Isa was bouncing slightly on her toes, a mix of nerves and excitement written all over her face. Marisol had her arms crossed, jaw set, doing that calm-beneath-the-surface thing she was so good at. Luz looked small, but steady. And me? My palms were sweating, but I was determined to keep it together.

The Brownsville mayor gave a brief welcome and introduced us. There was a ripple of murmurs as we walked up, cameras clicking. We sat in the chairs behind the podium while Isa stepped forward.

She adjusted the mic with ease and scanned the crowd. “Hi, I’m Isa Rodriguez. I’m a pre-law student at UTSA, and one of the four people who were taken.” She paused. “I want to start by thanking everyone who helped get us home. And I want to say—there are a lot of stories going around, but we’re here to tell you ours. The truth, from the people who lived it.”

Her voice stayed steady as she talked about being taken, the early days of captivity, the fear. She didn’t go into graphic detail, but she didn’t sugarcoat anything either. She was honest. Brave.

Near the end, her signature humor peeked through. “We made it back with nothing but the clothes on our backs, a busted flip phone, and a level of dysfunction that only trauma bonding can create.”