Chapter 1

Akemi sits on a hard plastic chair that looks like it came from an old conference room because it did. Fluorescent lights are too bright and cold. The floor of the government building feels unfinished, like an office space turned into a makeshift detention center (because it was just that) using folding partitions, desks pushed aside, and security tape marking areas no one really pays attention to. The air-conditioning works, at least. You appreciate it until you don’t. You wish you had something warm to wrap around yourself. Will you be sleeping here tonight? How? Will they have blankets?

Her red origami-fold skirt is not meant for a place like this. She looks around. Has anyone noticed? Why should they? The other detainees have their own concerns.

The immigration policeman who brought her in has disappeared. He is taller than her husband, broad-shouldered, built like someone used to physical work. His hair is cut short on the sides, slightly messy on top. She has a good visual memory because she’s an artist. It doesn’t matter to her that he’s handsome. He shouldn’t have arrested her (is that what it was?). She’s done nothing wrong. She’s a permanent resident. She can’t laugh because it isn’t funny, just as she can’t appreciate his handsomeness. He has a stronger face than her husband, but so what?

Then he’s back. He looks good in his uniform. Akemi notices his snug trousers. The pants leg had brushed her when she stepped into the patrol car. Was she holding onto that detail to use in a painting later? Yeah, it really was funny. Anyway, the thoughts distracted from the situation, which wasn’t good to face head-on. She was fighting back panic. He looks at her. She doesn’t want to show her anger, much less fear—give him that satisfaction.

“No,” he says.

“What?”

“No. Nothing.” He has stepped closer, as if she has asked a question he missed.

“I just-”

She realizes he is embarrassed. Is he? She doesn’t soften toward him. She won’t credit him with humanity, not after what he’s done. What else might he be capable of?

“It’s just that-”

“What?” She finds herself smiling in spite of herself, a reflex.

“I was just wondering-”

She waits for him to find the words. Does he think she won’t understand English?

“—if you’d like a cup of coffee.” Here it’s he who smiles.

Being detained has confused her. She can’t answer. Is paralyzed.

“It isn’t Starbucks.”

He’s showing kindness. And talking as if they’re on a date. She shakes her head. He shakes his and walks away. Suit yourself.

Before leaving the detainment area, he turns around, hesitates for a moment, is about to go but stops himself again.

“I like your skirt.”

Is this to get back at her for rejecting his coffee—and everything else he might offer?

It would be sexual harassment in a workplace, but she has no rights here.

She was on the way to dance class when he pulled her over and asked for ID.

“If I’m being arrested, I need a lawyer.”

He shakes his head. He’s decided to hang on after all, let her talk. But she has no more to say.

“System flags people sometimes. Happens. Especially with”—he gestures toward the room full of detainees—”them.”

Mostly Latin American and poor. Akemi’s skirt differentiates her. Was that what he meant? From the color alone you can see it wasn’t cheap. Red-orange. Tangerine. 100% cotton.