We file into the block. Our cell door clangs open, then slams shut behind us. The electric whirr of the mechanical locks echoes down the tier, sealing everybody in tight. It's twenty degreeshotter in here than the yard. The stale air is heavy with sweat, bleach, and yesterday's regret. The bunk creaks as Carl drops onto his mattress. I lean against the wall, arms crossed.
"Can I borrow a piece of paper, man?" he asks, voice small in the hush.
"Yeah." I rip a sheet from my notebook and hand it over.
CHAPTER 4
RAUL
…13 years old
A seagull cries over the turquoise waves crashing against the shore. It's been three weeks since she left us.This stretch of Miami Beach, otherwise known as Virginia Key, was her favorite escape from the chemo fog and city grind. The water stays warm. The horizon feels endless.
The last eight months blur into hell. Stage 4 breast cancer came as aggressive as a hurricane. It didn't stop at her chest. It flooded her lungs, her liver, her bones. She faded fast. Her vibrant laugh turned to whispers. But she fought with everything she had until the end.
Dad shuffles up through the sand, two cold beers sweating in his hands. He tries to pass me one.
"Dad, I'm thirteen," I mutter. I'm not even going to mention it's only 9 AM.
"Sorry, Mijo." He shrugs, chugs half of the first beer, then sips the second. His eyes stay red-rimmed and distant.
He's been a ghost since the funeral. Barely home. And when he is, it's beer or rum talking, not Dad. I'm just a kid, but I knowwhen he's not really there. His body stands on this sand, but his soul drifts somewhere between Calle Ocho and Mom's empty side of the bed.
I shrug off my backpack. My fingers shake as I unzip it. The plastic bag inside feels too light, too final. This is her. Our fierce, curly-haired queen reduced to gray dust. We saved vials in little bullet pendant urns to wear close. Her last wish was clear — the rest scatters here. Let the winds carry her free, straight to heaven.
"Here, Dad." I pass him the bag of Mom's ashes. "I wrote her something."
I dig deeper into my backpack and pull out the crumpled paper from the bottom. I've never been organized. I unfold it with trembling hands. My voice cracks from the first word.
"Mom, I don't know how we're supposed to keep going without you. You were what made our family. Our rock. Our everything. And even though you're gone, I feel you everywhere. Your hand steady on my shoulder when I'm scared. Your voice echoing in my mind, replacing my own. I know you'll never really leave. We love you, Mom. We miss you so much. And…"
A sob rips through me. Words drown. I crumple to my knees. Sand bites my skin.
"Son. It's okay. It's okay." Dad's voice breaks. One tear cuts through the salt and stubble on his cheek. He kisses my forehead fiercely, then cradles the bag like a baby. "Mi amor, I'm sorry." He presses a gentle kiss to the plastic. His shoulders shake. "Forgive me. I'm so damn sorry."
I've never seen my dad so vulnerable. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him cry over the years. He's always been strong, masculine, cold, and guarded. He’s the kind of man who fits every stereotype of a traditional Cuban father. Ernesto Javier Alvarez stands just under six feet tall with a solid, imposing build. Not fat, not muscular, but heavy enough to lookintimidating. Tattoos cover his body, and he has a way of making almost everyone around him uneasy. Seeing him like this, so broken and raw, is eye-opening in a way I’ll never forget.
He turns and scatters some of the ashes along the shoreline, his mouth moving in a low whisper I can't quite hear. For a moment, it feels like he's speaking to Mom, promising her what neither of us can promise the other, reassuring her the way a husband does when the world has already fallen apart. With the bag still half full, he hands it to me.
"Your turn to say goodbye, Mijo." A weak grin touches his face.
I look down at the bag, then slowly step toward the water, emptying the rest of her into the foam as the tide slides in and out around my feet. My own hands seem far away, like they belong to someone else. The whole thing feels surreal, as if I'm watching myself from above, from some place where grief can't quite reach me.
Quietly, I whisper a prayer for my mother's peace.
My father draws me into an embrace before we walk back to the car in silence, side by side, carrying the kind of emptiness that words would only make smaller.
Car loaded up, we pull up to Aunt Val's. Diego's already outside, waiting to help with the bags. He nods at us in greeting, trying to act cool, but his grin is stretched so wide it almost gives him away. We're going to be staying here for a while.
Dad's been struggling to motivate himself to go to work, and now he's lost his job. We got evicted from our house. The house I was raised in. The house Mom lived in and loved.
My chest tightens, heat rushing up my neck as tears threaten to spill. I force them back and smile at my cousin. I just hope Aunt Val can knock some sense into her little brother.
My olive-green suitcase trails behind me while the rest of our life gets carried inside in bags.
"Come put your stuff in my room, man!" Diego says, already tugging me toward his bedroom.
The house is small, not much bigger than ours. Two bedrooms, so I'm not even sure how the sleeping arrangements are going to work. I'm just grateful we have somewhere to exist.
