The last three weeks had really sucked. His telephone didn’t work. When he asked for someone to fix it, nothing happened. When he asked one of his teachers if he could use hers to call home, she backed away like he’d suggested sex on the desk.

That was the day the two badasses swaggered onto the soccer field and stared at him, silently telling him that he was number one on their hit list.

Something had happened three weeks ago.

Lane didn’t know what it was, he didn’t know what had caused it. All he knew was that he’d gone from being a student to something else.

Something that felt like a prisoner.

So what? I’ve held my own with those two pendejos for twenty-one days. I’m nailing my classes. My room is always clean and neat. The teachers like me.

Or they did until three weeks ago.

When Mom comes to visit, I’ll just casually ask her if Dad has changed his mind and maybe I could come home for a week. Or a few days.

Even one day.

Just a few hours.

Because once I’m across that border, I’m never coming back. I’ll live on the streets if I have to.

Lane listened to the relentless surf and told himself that the waves weren’t whispering, prisoner…prisoner…prisoner…

But even that hissing chant was better than remembering the voices of the two thugs as they tripped him, elbowed him, kicked him: You’re ours, pato. You’re dead meat. We’re going to sneak into your room, cut off your balls, and make you eat them.

Lane shut out the sound of the surf and the voices in his memory.

I’m not a prisoner.

I’m not scared.

1

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

LA JOLLA