Deportation Prime - Next Day Delivery
When families are treated like packages
“Babe, what’s that sound?” Carla asked.
“Vans,” Miguel whispered, pulling her under the window ledge.
She clutched her son tighter. “The one with the yellow stripe?”
Miguel peeked. “Yeah. ICE-Prime. They got Mr. Alvarez cuffed by the mailbox.”
“It’s Sunday. They’re not supposed to run on Sundays.”
“Changed the schedule. New protocols. They’re sweeping neighborhoods like clearing inventory.”
“I don’t understand how we became... data,” she said. “Deliverables.”
The boy stirred. “Mommy, are the delivery men coming for us?”
“No, mi conejito. We’re just playing a game. Like hide-and-seek, remember?”
Miguel looked out again. “Okay. We’ve got maybe five minutes. Grab the go-bag. No shoes with laces.”
“But the baby’s bottle—”
“We can’t take everything. Just IDs and the burner.”
A knock interrupted. Then the door burst inward. The sound of boots on the landing.
Miguel lunged, too late. Carla screamed once before they were dragged apart. The boy sobbed into her chest as rough hands seized and restrained them. They were shoved into the van, the metal door slamming shut behind them.
Then came a soft cheery chime — confirming the pickup was complete.
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