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black market. You’re setting a bad example for your children.” She throws the pork chop down and wipes her hands on my mother’s good tablecloth. “You leave me no choice. They will be sent to one of our new schools where they can live in the proper environment, do healthy work, and start their reeducation.”
    â€œNo one is going to take my children away from me!” my mother hisses.
    Papi wraps his arms around her. “I think you better leave now,” he says to the little woman, and then he escorts her out.
    â€œCan she really send us away?” Alquilino asks.
    â€œNo, she’s just a busybody,” Papi says trying to reassure us.
    My mother waits for the kitchen door to slam shut andthen sits down. She hides her face in her hands. “She’s not just a nosy neighbor; she
can
have you sent away.”
    â€œI’m sure she can’t—” my father starts, but my mother interrupts him.
    â€œYes she can and they’re doing it already. First they send them out to cut sugarcane and then to a school in Russia where they can put whatever they want into their heads. When they come back, they’re different. They won’t even know us!”
    â€œWhere did you hear that?” Papi asks.
    â€œThe new radio station from Miami,” my mother answers and then crosses her arms. That’s the signal that she’s made up her mind, there’s no need to argue the point.
    Gordo pokes his older brother. “We’ll cut cane, right, Alquilino? We’re not scared.”
    Making sure we’re looking into her eyes, she says slowly, “I’ll send you away before I let them get their hands on you.”
    â€œSend us away?” I ask.
    â€œYes. There’s a man that helps parents get their kids out of the country. I’ve already called and started the whole process. He said there are camps in the United States where Cuban kids can go to wait for their parents to get out.”
    â€œYou did this without telling me?” my father asks.
    â€œNo one’s going to take my children away.” My mother’s face has turned into a steely mask.
    I recognize that look. I saw it on the faces of the parentswaiting in the saddest line of all. I look away from my mother’s eyes and start shoving the burned black beans around my plate. I never thought my mother could be like the parents waiting in that line, so determined to send their children to a strange country all alone.

    There’s a suitcase open on each of our beds. My brothers are flipping through comic books they outgrew years ago; they glance at a page or two, and then toss them under the bed. I’m drawing the angry little woman on the wall next to my bed. She’s waving a black pork chop, leading a parade of tanks and soldiers marching the length of my bed. She’s the first in line but the last one I’m going to draw on this wall. We’re leaving today.
    â€œHey, Julian, don’t you think you’re too old to still be drawing on the wall?” Gordo yells from across the room. I don’t answer.
    My mother used to get really angry when I drew on the wall, but lately she hasn’t had the time to notice what I draw, where I go, or even to talk to me.
    At night all she ever talks about are the lines. The lines she has to stand in all day to get one signature for our visas, just so she can go to the end of next line to get them stamped.
    Every time I ask her about the camps where we’re going, she always says the same thing, “The camps are beautiful. There are horses, lakes, and pine trees.” Thenknowing what my next question is going to be she adds, “And don’t worry, we’ll be there before you know it.” I don’t know why, but I get the feeling she’s not telling me something and she’s not as sure as she’s trying to sound.
    When I asked my brothers about where we’re going, Alquilino looked away