“No way.” I speed toward my new destination, hoping there won’t be any cops on the backroads. “We’ll cross the border on foot.”
“That’s illegal,” Dad protests.
“So is what they’re doing!” I argue, turning onto the unpaved road that leads to one of our favorite campsites, though we haven’t been up here since well before Mom passed.
“Maverick, this is probably some kind of misunderstanding. I’m sure the courts would agree that—”
I cut him off, slamming on the breaks and turning toward him, heart pounding. “Enough, Dad!” I’ve only ever yelled at my dad one other time in my life, and that time—I was angry about losing a game and took it out on him—I regretted it immediately. This time, I hope it communicates how dire this situation actually is. I take a deep breath, loosening my grip on the steering wheel. “The time for doing things the right way has passed. We can’t put our trust in a government that’s no longer putting its citizens first.”
My dad stares silently out the window for a long time until he finally turns to look at me, a solemn expression on his face. “You’re right.”
My relief is palpable. “I’m sorry for yelling.”
“I needed it.” He shakes his head, chuckling sadly. “Since your mother died, I feel like I’ve been in a fog; like my soul and my body aren’t quite connected anymore. I know things are bad, know you’ve been keeping things from me to protect me.”
I sit silently, letting him say what he needs to say.
“But you don’t need to protect me, son. If anything,Ishould be protectingyou.”
“It’s okay, Dad.” I reach over and grab his hand.
“I feel like I’m failing you as a father,” he confesses, voice tight.
“Are you kidding?” I ask, holding my own tears at bay. “You’re the best dad I ever could’ve asked for.”
We both lean across the bench and hug, squeezing each other tightly as tears slide down our cheeks. “I love you, son.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
We pull away and wipe our tears with our shirts, both of us laughing softly. “All right, kiddo. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I nod, accelerating once again. We navigate the twists and turns of the dirt road until we come to a downed tree blocking the path. I put the truck in park and jump out to see if I can lift it out of the way. I squat, hook the trunk with my forearms, and lift, grunting with strain. Dad notices me struggling and gets out to help, but even with the strength of two full-grown men, the tree won’t budge.
“Dammit,” I pant, wiping my brow.
“Maybe there’s another access road,” Dad suggests.
I shake my head. “We’ll have to continue on foot.”
Dad looks like he wants to argue, but then nods in acceptance. I move the truck—a 1989 single cab I bought off an elderly neighbor a few years ago—off to the side and cover it with some branches from the fallen tree, hiding it from view and praying I’ll see it again someday. We grab our backpacks and anything else we can comfortably carry out of the bed with a plan to retrieve the rest of it once we’re settled.
After an hour of hiking through the forest, we come to a paved road and spot another checkpoint. My father and I exchange a look, hoping these areactualborder patrol agents and not some morecorrupt cops. Luckily, they accept our papers and listen empathetically as we explain what happened with the other officer.
“You guys are lucky. Most people haven’t made it past their blockades, even on foot.”
“What are the chances of us being able to retrieve our vehicle and belongings?” Dad asks.
The agent shakes his head. “Unlikely, sir. I wouldn’t recommend returning for material possessions. It’s simply not worth the risk of getting caught.”
The agents are nice enough to arrange transport for us to the city where we take a cab to a hotel for the night. Since the house hasn’t sold, Dad didn’t feel comfortable purchasing something here right away. But even without selling the house, he’ll be okay financially for the foreseeable future thanks to Mom’s life insurance policy.
For now, we decompress in silence after our insane day. Dad’s got the TV playing reruns of some cheesy sitcom while I scroll on my phone, though it does nothing to bring me actual comfort. Laughing at a dumb video seems trivial when the entire country has gone to shit.
Gabriel’s most recent post fills my screen, and my stomach drops. It’s a screen capture from a video of a bunch of guys wearing ski masks. They’re surrounding a woman—Gabriel’s ex-girlfriend I think, though it’s hard to tell with a black censor bar over her eyes—while one of them holds her head up by her hair. The caption of the video is a link to a website, and while I already feel sick from seeing the photo, I know I have to see it for myself.
I click the link, and an age verification box pops up, citing explicit content. I enter my date of birth and click “verify”, granting me access to the site. Bile snakes its way up my throat as I witness my best friend—and three other men—assault an unconscious woman, laughing and joking all the while. I jump off the bed, spouting some lame excuse about needing to get some air.
Dad calls after me, asking if I’m alright, but I’m out of the hotel room before he can come after me. The video is burned into my brain, making everything seem distorted as I catch a cab. “Get me as close to the border as you can.”
