Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  “Ladies.” Corporal Reynolds removes his mirrored-lens sunglasses as he steps closer. “Is there a problem?”

  Here goes nothing. “I need to make a phone call.”

  Corporal Reynolds takes a deep breath. “There’s a procedure for that.”

  “I… it’s just that—”

  “It’s her one-year anniversary, and she wants to talk to her boyfriend. She hasn’t gotten to talk to him since we’ve been in here.” Ayesha tilts her head toward me. “Can’t you help? Please.” The tone in her voice is pitch-perfect—concern, pity, slight pleading for a rescue.

  He looks at us. Pauses. Pausing is good. It means he’s thinking about it. My shoulders tense; I feel Ayesha’s arm tighten around my back.

  Corporal Reynolds nods. “Okay, come with me.”

  Ayesha and I exhale. I give her a little hug, and she whispers, “Jazak Allah.” Tears spring to my eyes, maybe because it’s the first time it actually feels like I really need divine intervention in my life. May God reward us all.

  Corporal Reynolds and I walk toward the Hub. The adrenaline surging through me makes my heart feel like it might explode out of my chest. I swallow and keep swallowing. I’m so parched. I try to focus outward. He keeps his eyes ahead as he strides forward. When he realizes I have to speed up to keep pace, he slows down. Even, regular steps. His broad shoulders round forward ever so slightly when he walks. He keeps his hair cropped short in the back. I can tell it’s been recently cut because of the uneven tan on the skin visible between his shirt collar and the back of his fitted sandstone infantry cap. His sleeves are rolled all the way down today, so I don’t see his compass tattoo.

  I feel like I should say something. I’m not quite sure why, but this silence feels weighty, too inflated, and I want to let the air out. Maybe it will help me breathe. But my mind goes blank. I clear my throat. “Corporal Reynolds, um… sir? I was wondering if you binged the new season of Jessica Jones? We don’t get it on the inside. And I’m dying to know what happens. But mainly what happens with Jessica Jones and Luke Cage. I hate that Iron Fist is making a cameo. He’s so whiny. I couldn’t even watch his series; it was totally whitewashed.”

  Corporal Reynolds slows down and furrows his eyebrows at me for a second before his face relaxes a little. “It’s on my watch list, but I haven’t started this season. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I work up a little more courage to continue. “And thank you for letting me call David.”

  “We’ll see how it goes. Don’t say anything to anyone.”

  I nod. I glance at his holstered gun, and then I’m in my home and the Suit is drawing his handgun on me and the other Suit is throwing my dad to the ground and I hear my mom’s scream. She would be screaming right now, too, if she saw me walking anywhere with a guard. I shake my head and mutter to myself to remember to breathe.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m just—” I decide to tell the truth. “I’m reminding myself to breathe.”

  “Breathe?”

  “My family was forced into a prison camp for basically being alive, and you have a gun that you can use to shoot me if I do anything I’m not supposed to. So, yeah, I’m trying to breathe.” My jaw clenches. I can imagine the look of horror on my mom’s face if she were listening to me. How frightened she and my dad would be. I’m terrified, too, but I’m so tired of doing what I’m told to do and going along with this bullshit.

  The corporal slows his steps, then stops short and turns to me. “I’m not going to shoot you.” He speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable. He opens his mouth, hesitates. “Also, you’re right. Lewis Tan should have played Iron Fist.” The curve of a smile almost appears, but he seems to force it off his face. Then he continues walking, faster. I hurry to keep pace, allowing myself a small grin.

  We get to the Hub, but he directs me to a trailer located beside the admin building, where the Director has an office. Corporal Reynolds looks around before he points me to a side door, which he quickly opens and then ushers me through.

  It’s a trailer like the one my family was assigned to, but without a kitchen or living area. The unit has been retooled into an office. There’s a rectangular table—like the kind we set up for bake sales at school, but narrower—pushed against one side of the trailer. Three gray metal folding chairs are beside it. He motions to one of two phones on the table. I take a seat. He picks up the handset and enters some kind of code. He hands it to me.

  “Two minutes,” he says.

  I hold the phone to my ear. I don’t remember the last time I picked up a landline. I mock my parents for still having one. But there it is: a dial tone. A regular landline dial tone, reaching out from the past like a security blanket, a sign that the world beyond this fence still exists. The phone slips in my sweaty palm, and I quickly reposition it at my ear. With shaking fingers, I press the buttons that will lead me to David. Or at least to his voice. There are only three numbers besides my own that I’ve memorized: My parents’ cells. And his.

  I wonder if he’ll sound different. I wonder what I should say to him to get him here somehow—to get his help—while the corporal and whoever else listens in. He’s turned his back to me, at least. It’s not much, but it’s a gesture to give me a pretend kind of privacy.

  Ring.

  My heart thumps in my ears. It reverberates through my entire body. A sort of lightness swells in my chest, and I think it’s something like hope. It hurts. Like a muscle I haven’t used.

  Ring.

  Two minutes. Think, Layla. Get David here. Tell him you love him. But don’t waste all your time on sentimental mushy stuff.

  Ring.

  Panic grips me. I look around, and my eyes fall on the microwave clock flashing the time in bright-green numbers. It’s a school day. David’s in school. Right now he’s in English class.

  No. No. No. No.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “Hey, it’s David. You know what to do.”

  The phone beeps. And then there’s only silence. “David,” I whisper, choking on my words. But then fury surges through me and I slam the phone down. My mom’s voice pops into my head: Take a breath, Layla. I push her voice out of my mind, shove it away, along with every ounce of reason I have. I’m angry. Rage burns my insides. I can’t temper my feelings with logical thinking.

  Corporal Reynolds whips around, startled by the loud clatter of the handset against the phone’s base. “Is there a problem?”

  “A problem? A problem?” I start to laugh but choke on it. “Where should I start? It’s not one problem; it’s a million. It’s my life. It’s the fact that I’m in this fucking camp because I had the gall to merely exist.” My stomach twists in knots, and I can hear my voice getting louder and my breath faster. But I don’t stop. I step closer to Corporal Reynolds. “And you and everyone in here, every guard, every politician, every neighbor who watched us get taken away and said nothing—this nightmare is on you. I can’t even make a goddamn phone call to hear my boyfriend’s voice without begging. And I’m so sick of it. I hate the president. And I hate you. I hate you so much right now because you can shoot me for no reason at all and no one will say a word. And I hate myself, too, because I’m so fucking stupid to yell at a guard, and now I have to bow down and count on your mercy to not throw me in the brig or disappear me like all those other people who just wanted to live.” I suck in my breath. Hot tears splash across my face. I wipe them away with my sleeve, waiting. Waiting for Corporal Reynolds to say something, to do something. To handcuff me, to punch me, to take me away.

  But he doesn’t. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other while staring down at his boots. Then he lifts his head and meets my gaze. The air in this trailer is too thick to breathe. My cheeks are burning up. Still he says nothing, just stares at me with a sort of pained look in his eyes.

  Finally, he takes a deep breath, clears his throat, and gives me a slight nod. He steps forward, opens
the trailer door, and walks out.

  I pause. I feel a little like throwing up. I can’t take back anything I said. More important, I don’t want to take it back. Maybe this was totally stupid, but a part of me feels good. Maybe even happy. Does that make me even stupider? I don’t know. Maybe it just makes me human.

  I open the door; the sun blinds me. I raise my hand to shade my eyes. Corporal Reynolds is waiting for me. He gives me a sad sort of smile. We walk back to Block 2 without another word.

  I pick up a little rock and throw it toward the mountains. That’s exactly what I feel like: a little rock against a mountain. I sit leaning back on one of the boulders in the garden. David’s message plays over and over in my head. I only choked out one word before succumbing to my anger and slamming down the phone. God, I’m a genius. He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. At least I got to hear his voice on his message. But it’s a shitty consolation prize.

  I’m at the farthest end of the rock garden, trying to give Ayesha and Soheil some semblance of privacy. Ayesha’s worried about being caught alone with him, so I’m her cover for this quick visit with Soheil.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Soheil inch closer to Ayesha—they’re perched on one of the giant rocks. I quickly turn away, occupy myself again with throwing pebbles. I’m not looking, but they’re only about ten feet away. I can hear everything, but I pretend not to.

  “Do you think it’s weird we met in here?” Ayesha asks Soheil.

  “‘Weird’ is one way to say it. Another is ‘fucked up,’” Soheil responds. “But I’m so glad we did.”

  Ayesha laughs. “Yeah, it’s not exactly how I imagined a meet-cute.”

  “How did you picture it?”

  “Well, I guess I saw myself entering this giant auditorium. It’s packed, people jostling for a seat. Excitement crackles in the air. It’s the Star Wars panel at Comic-Con. Then I see him, across the crowded room. This handsome guy—”

  “You forgot dashing,” Soheil interrupts.

  “Oh, sorry. There’s a handsome, dashing guy across the room. Our eyes lock. All we see is each other, and then the action slows around me, the faces blur. He walks up to me. And my heart is beating, like, super fast. And he extends his hand and says, ‘Hi, I’m Riz Ahmed.’”

  I try to stifle a snicker. I turn my head to catch Ayesha’s eye, but she’s only looking at Soheil, whose laugh is loud and warm.

  The camp-wide siren sounds.

  “Why don’t you guys go ahead to dinner. I’ll catch up,” I say to Ayesha and Soheil.

  “You okay?” Ayesha asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Need a minute alone.” I smile as the two of them set off.

  Dinner in the Mess. Again. I don’t think I can stand much more of this. More pretending. More fake smiles and meaningless exchanges with the minders, who always make sure to say hello to each of us during dinner. More sitting on edge but faking like everything is normal. More wanting to scream but holding it in because screaming gets you dragged away. In the Mess, we’re all together in an enclosed space, minders and guards everywhere, and the air is so charged with fear and anxiety, but we can’t acknowledge it; we’re too scared to draw attention. In this place, the last thing you want is attention.

  I close my eyes. As the sun sets, the evening cools. If I block everything out, for a minute—just for a minute—I can breathe without a weight on my chest. I let my mind float where it wants to go. It always settles on everyday things. Going to the movies. Air-conditioning. Ice cream. Kissing David in the stacks of the school library. School. For the barest second, I pray that I’ll wake up from this nightmare and be home. Then I force myself to open my eyes and face the stark desert. There’s no place for nostalgia here.

  “Layla.” The sound of his voice makes me jump up. Corporal Reynolds is alone. He hasn’t turned me in for yelling at him. And for saying I hate the president, which used to be free speech but qualifies as treason now. Not clapping for the president at his damn State of the Union address is practically sedition. And some people still think this is a democracy.

  I wipe the dust off my jeans. Pretend everything is okay. Well, as okay as it can be. I nod. “I know. I know. Mealtime. I’ll hurry and get to my five-star dinner,” I say, and begin walking toward the Mess. I usually meet my parents there. They’ll panic if I don’t show up on time.

  Corporal Reynolds grabs my elbow.

  I freeze. I look up at him, my mouth open. Waves of dread wash over me, and every internal alarm I have is blaring. Maybe I was stupid for thinking he wasn’t going to turn me in. Maybe he was waiting to find me alone so I would be easier to take away. Oh God, how could I have been so careless?

  “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was late. I’ll run to catch up with the others.” I lick my lips. Suddenly I’m parched. I blink back tears.

  “It’s okay. You’re fine. I’m not taking you anywhere. Sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you.” He lets go of my arm. “Layla,” he starts again, but this time his voice is softer. “Hang back a second. I have something for you.”

  People make their way to the Mess. The guards stationed at the blocks usually follow us to dinner before switching shifts. Everyone’s back is turned toward us. My instinct is to run. It’s always to run. But where? I wonder if after a while your body starts to wear down when you don’t listen to that fight-or-flight response. Does it start to give you the wrong signals because you’ve ignored all the earlier ones? Does that swooshing sound in your ears ever stop?

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t get through to your boyfriend yesterday.”

  That’s what he came to tell me? I stare up at him in disbelief.

  “Look,” he says, and then carefully pulls what seems to be an ancient flip phone from his pocket and places it in my hand. “It’s a burner.”

  My brain does not process what he’s giving me.

  “Put it in your pocket. I’m going to escort you back to your trailer, and you’re going to walk into your bathroom clutching your stomach, and then call your boyfriend. You only have a few minutes. If anyone asks, you got sick by the garden, and I brought you here and then to the Mess. Do you understand?”

  A million thoughts whir through my brain, but I can’t speak. I only nod. We walk down the Midway. A couple of other stragglers ahead of me jog toward the Mess, but when we turn toward my block, it’s empty. No one wants to be late to anything here. We’re constantly reminded there will be consequences. No specifics. But that word lingers in the air here. Consequences.

  When I get into my trailer, I head straight for the bathroom, bent over, arms wrapped around my middle, like Corporal Reynolds instructed me.

  David picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “David,” I whisper. “It’s me.”

  “Oh my God, Layla.”

  “Shh,” I say, not knowing where he is or if anyone might be listening on his end.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice. How are you calling me? Holy shit. Are you okay? What are they doing to you? Are you hurt? Did they say anything about when they might release you? Do you—”

  His voice. David’s voice. Home. But this isn’t the time for nostalgia. Or sentimentality. Or even feelings, really.

  “David,” I cut him off. “I miss you so much. I love you. But I—”

  “I love you, too. I miss you. I can’t believe how fucked up everything is right now.”

  “David, I need your help. Can you come here? Can you visit me? I’m at—”

  “I know where you are. My dad’s old State Department contacts told him. My father’s a jerk, but I told him if he didn’t find out where you were, I’d never talk to him again. And of course I’ll come there. But do they allow—”

  There’s a loud knock at the trailer door. Crap.

  “David, I have to go. Please, I’ll figure something out. I need you. Maybe we can come up with a way to sneak you in.”

  Another loud knock on the door, and then I hear it open
.

  “Good-bye, David. I love you.”

  “Layla. Wait. Listen, it’s lunch; that’s why I have my phone. But from now on I’ll keep it on me all the time. Let it ring once, hang up and dial again. Then I’ll know it’s you. Also, I love—”

  “Layla.” Corporal Reynolds’s voice fills the entire trailer. “We have to go. Now.”

  I hang up on David, slip the phone in my pocket, and step out of the bathroom.

  Corporal Reynolds practically pulls me out the door. “The next shift of guards is arriving,” he whispers. “Remember, you were sick so I escorted you to your Mercury Home.” He quickly scans the vicinity, then gestures for me to give him the phone. He palms it and kneels in the dirt to adjust his laces, tucking the phone in the gap between his sock and boot.

  He takes me by the elbow and walks me past the guards, who are taking their positions at the head of our block. The two salute him. He nods, and we continue to the Mess.

  The other guards give him deference. I mean, they’re required to, I guess. But for some of them, the look in their eyes makes it seem like more than a robotic gesture.

  I look at Corporal Reynolds as we continue on. Not sure what to make of him, exactly. He’s a guard with a gun. But he’s also taking a risk to help me. Corporal Reynolds is a puzzle with lots of pieces, but half of them are missing. So I can’t really see who he is.

  “Why are you doing this? Helping me?”

  “It’s only a phone call,” he says. Then adds, “I have my reasons.” His tone is gruff. Like he’s mad, but at himself.

  “Thank you, Corporal Reynolds,” I say as we approach the Mess. And I mean it. I don’t exactly trust him; those missing puzzle pieces could be anything. They could be hiding a monster, but my gut tells me that what he’s hiding isn’t so nefarious.

  Before we are in earshot of the guards outside the Mess, he bends down and says softly, “Call me Jake. And believe me when I tell you this: Whatever you’re planning, whatever you think you might be able to do, think again. Don’t do anything stupid. You can get yourself hurt or killed in here. More easily than you know.”