Katniss, beginning to stand, stops and grabs a key ring from the nearest deputy’s belt. “Stay behind me,” she says, moving toward the nearest Quonset hut door.
Simon grabs the Prophet’s hand. Time has stopped making sense. The edges of his vision threaten to close in. People are dead. Riddled with bullets. There is a feeling in his belly that can only be described as exhilaration. It feels like he has gone crazy.
“It’s okay,” the Prophet tells him. “It’s all part of God’s plan.”
Katniss reaches the Quonset hut door. She tosses the key to Simon, motions for him to open it and step back. Dull-witted, in shock, Simon misses the key ring and has to scramble in the dirt to get it. He comes up fumbling, adrenaline shaking his hands. After what feels like an eternity, he finds the right key and slips it into the lock. Only as he turns the key and yanks on the handle does he think about what may wait for them on the other side.
S is for Simon who angered the hive.
The first shot catches Katniss in the arm, spins her sideways.
“Ogres,” says the Prophet.
Another shot from inside, the muzzle flash lighting up the night. Still holding the door, Simon sees a hulking figure inside the doorway, weapon high, belly distended, mouth distorted in anger and fear. Overhead, a bloodred emergency bulb colors him in hellish light.
Ogre.
The second bullet whizzes past Simon’s ear. He is too stunned to duck. Behind the agent, a hundred cowering children scream through a chain-link fence, their faces painted red.
Ogre.
And then Simon feels himself freeing the shotgun from his shoulder—am I doing that?—feels it move into his hands—stop! don’t—the barrel rising, his right hand clicking off the safety.
Simon—could it be he is an instrument of the Lord?—pulls the trigger.
Boom, says the shotgun. The kick of it is so strong the shotgun rips out of his hands and flies backward out the door, as—in what feels like slow motion—the ogre tilts backward and tumbles into darkness, blown out of his shoes, quivering with electric shock. Blue sparks paint the wall as the ogre convulses, making a series of glottal grunts and shrieks.
In the stillness that follows, the stench of cordite hangs over them. Children whimper and scream.
“It’s okay,” the Prophet tells them, stepping inside. “Está bien. Somos amigos. Amigos.”
Simon turns and throws up in the dirt. Behind him, Katniss has torn off one of her shirtsleeves and tied it around her left arm to stop the bleeding. She pushes Simon inside, her fingers dripping blood. The Prophet goes to the cage door.
“Nosotros tambien somos ni?os,” he says. We’re children too.
“Juice boxes,” he says. “Doritos.”
Simon finds a bench, sits down, trying not to look at the deputy he shot. Not an ogre at all in the literal sense, but a man with a family. He can smell the electricity in the air, the smell of burnt flesh.
S is for Simon whose poor heart just stopped.
Katniss flips the guard over, zip-ties his wrists.
“Javier,” says the Prophet. “Estoy buscando a Javier.”
The children clamor and mill. A hurried meeting is held in the cage. The eldest children take charge.
“Nosotros queremos salir,” says one. We want out.
“Yes,” says the Prophet. “We’re here to save you. Simon.”
But Simon has gone deep down into himself.
S is for Simon whose body has dropped.
The Prophet calls to Katniss to get the keys and open the cage. She rifles Simon’s pocket, swings wide the gate, and then the children are pouring out, surrounding them, pulling at their clothes, clapping them on the back.
We’re children too.
A small heavyset boy with a bowl haircut takes Simon’s hand. He has the kindest eyes Simon has ever seen.
“Yo soy Javier,” he says. “Juice box. Juice box.”
*
He was born in a limbo camp on the other side of the border, the youngest of four. His parents had been there for sixteen months already, waiting for an interview. Blue tents and shipping containers, makeshift scoop lights dangling, the ground carpeted in empty plastic water bottles. If you climbed the camp’s one tree, you could see America across the Rio Grande. Every day you lined up for water, for food. Every day you lined up to talk to the lady with the clipboard. How much longer? Each child in Javier’s family had one outfit they kept in a ziplock bag. These were their interview clothes, ready at a moment’s notice, in case the lady with the clipboard said today was the day.
Spring came and went. Javier’s sister sickened and died when dysentery swept through the camp. Summer became fall. Javier started eating solid food. His first tooth came in. Finally the lady with the clipboard called their name. Today would be their interview for admittance to the United States of America. The children clamored as Mama and Poppy opened their ziplock bags, oohing at the bright colors of Mama’s dress, the sheen of Poppy’s suit. They stayed with their tía Maria as their parents hurried to the fence line and disappeared. Hot hours passed. The children waited as the sun crested and started to go down, the olders running wild.
When Mama and Poppy came back, they were smiling. Mama and Tía Maria cried and held each other. The judge had heard their case. Tomorrow they were going to America.