José sat quietly in his corner of the small room. The other kids had fallen asleep by now, finally succumbing to their mental exhaustion. José was was only six years old though, and he had seen too much. He wasn’t sleeping tonight.
Three nights ago, men in uniforms kidnapped him. José had seen his older sister Bibiana kidnapped the year before, but this time was different. Bibiana was taken in the middle of the night by a group of men wearing masks. The men in uniforms were not quite as discreet as the men in masks had been. His Mamá and Papá were put in handcuffs and walked away in one direction, and José was stuffed into the back of a van and carted away in the opposite direction. The last memory José had of his mother was the sound of her screams fading into the distance.
Mamá and Papá told José this day would never come. “We’re visiting the land of the free, mijo,” they told him. “No one gets kidnapped there,” Papá had said.
José hugged his knees, remembering his Papá’s words. Then, he remembered the man in the red tie, and what he had said, “If they feel there will be separation, they won’t come.”