The DEA
I was up too late dreaming. Flashlight under the covers and pages turning under my thumbs. So many stories from so many voices. Cast out into the wide world and landing in my tiny one. They made me feel less alone, less different for wanting a different kind of life than the one I was born into, less selfish for wanting to see things for myself.
I ran for the bus with messy brown curls that I tried to flatten with my palms, hastily tucking in my shirt at the bus stop with my brown bag lunch between my teeth. Passed to me from my mamá‘s hand with a hurried kiss to my forehead as my papá held the door open and told me I better—
Go.
I was up too late studying. Textbooks on the table, a graphite pencil in my hand, Johnny Cash on the radio as my mamá leaned against the counter and quizzed me for my final exams. Every time I got one right she smiled. Every time I got one wrong she simply told me to try again.
I ran for my truck on move-in day as if college wouldn’t wait for me, as if graduating at seventeen didn’t already get me there fast enough. My mamá held my face in my hands and cried before I drove away, my papá told me to make sure to write as he kept his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. I was the first one to go away to school even if I didn’t go far. The first one to call home that night, just to hear their voices before my roommate shouted my name, and I told them I better—
Go.
I was up too late driving. Police badge on my belt and dispatch crackling on Halloween night. Trying to keep the local youth from doing all the things I’d already done, trying to get them to leave themselves and the town in one piece. A graveyard shift for the newly minted rookie who decided the best place to cut his teeth would be the same place he grew them, who would never admit that he left only to want to come back home.
I ran for my squad car in the morning like I used to run for the bus, a quick shower between an even quicker change from my chore clothes to my uniform. My mamá never let me leave without a prayer to San Miguel, my papá yelled after me to wear my vest. I waved a hand out the window before I drove away, dry dirt and dust kicking up in my tires’ wake. I wanted to feel like I was doing something, wanted to feel like I was leaving some sort of mark. My eyes landed on the clock on my dash, and I knew I really better—
Go.
I was up too late waiting. Gun in my hands and men behind me listening for my word. I’d been searching for so long, wanting to find the ones to blame, wanting to figure out why. Why some stupid kid had to pick that road and that night. Why the closer I got to keeping my promise, the further away I felt from the person to whom I made it.
I ran for the building, chest heaving beneath my vest, and I paused outside the door while I waited for the signal. The day I showed up at Quantico they told me I seemed like a sweet kid, told me to turn around and go home, told me the job would eat me alive. The gunfire started before I was ready, the shout ringing out—
Go now.