Chapter 10

From across the crowded holding area, Carmen watched the slim woman from the other side of the world—how she folded herself small against the wall, shoulders drawn tight, fingers tracing a pattern on her knee, which Carmen thought reflected anxiety. She couldn’t read the expression because she was East Asian—and her face showed little—but emotions were universal. Carmen thought, at least, she recognized fear, the kind that made silence feel safer than speech. Most of the women here clung to those who shared their language, their stories, but this one—alone. Carmen’s throat tightened. She knew what it was to be mistaken for something you weren’t, to have your life paused without explanation.

The Asian woman’s eyes darted once—just once—to meet Carmen’s, and in that flicker of contact, Carmen saw exhaustion, yes, but something else, too: a sharpness, like she was calculating every exit, every risk. A survivor’s gaze. Carmen’s chest warmed with the urge to cross the space between them, to offer a smile, a nodding “you’re not alone here.” But she hesitated. Would the woman see it as kindness or intrusion? Fear could make even gentle hands seem like threats.