Not Real Authority

The building doesn’t look like a jail. That’s the first lie. No bars on the outside. No warning signs. Just concrete and glass and fluorescent lighting so bright it scrapes the inside of your skull. A place designed to pretend it’s administrative, procedural—clean. They walk me through it like I’m furniture being returned to the wrong department. Hands still cuffed. Plastic bites into my wrists every time I move. Caelan’s voice still rings in my ears—Mom—even though they separated us before I could finish turning around.

“Stop resisting,” one of them snaps.

“I’m walking,” I say flatly. “If you want me to float, that’s a different budget.”

That earns me a shove between the shoulder blades. Hard. I stumble, catch myself, straighten. They don’t like that.

One of them—blond, red-faced, neck already blotchy with irritation—leans close. “You think you’re funny?”

“I think you’re pretending,” I reply without looking at him.

“What?”

“Authority,” I say. “You’re pretending you have it.”

That stops them. Actually stops them. Boots pause. The hallway goes quiet except for the buzz of the lights and the distant echo of someone crying behind a door I can’t see.

The blond agent scoffs. “You’re in federal custody.”

“No,” I correct calmly. “I’m in a building full of white people on a power trip.”

The silence stretches. Another agent laughs under his breath, sharp and mean. “You hear this one?”

I turn my head then. Slowly. Deliberately. I meet his eyes. “You’re real comfortable throwing the word illegal around,” I say, voice steady, “for people whose ancestors didn’t get here first.”

That one lands. The blond agent’s jaw tightens. “Watch your mouth.”

“Why?” I ask. “You gonna deport me too? Oh wait.”

He grabs my arm and spins me toward a door. “You don’t get to lecture us,” he snarls.

“Oh, I absolutely do,” I say as the door slams open. “This country wasn’t built by law-abiding saints. It was built by people who stole land from the Native Americans—that’s why we call them Native. Because they were here first. Not you. Not me. Them.”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t scream. That’s what makes it worse. They shove me forward. The room I’m thrown into is barely a room at all. No beds. No privacy. Just concrete benches bolted to the floor and a toilet shoved into the corner like an afterthought. The smell hits me instantly—sweat, fear, disinfectant failing at its job.

Women turn toward me. All ages. All colors. Some clutching bags. Some clutching nothing. One holding a baby so tightly I can see her hands shaking. The door slams shut behind me. The lock clicks. And suddenly the air feels heavier, like the walls lean inward. I roll my shoulders once, testing the cuffs. Plastic. Tight. Cheap. Designed to hurt if you fight. Good to know.

One woman near the wall watches me carefully. Older. Tired eyes. She speaks first. “You loud,” she says softly.

“Only when people lie to my face,” I reply.

A younger woman snorts despite herself.

Another whispers, “They say if you behave, it’s easier.”

I laugh. It comes out sharp, humorless. “Easier for who?”

No one answers that. I sit down slowly on the bench, back straight, chin up. My wrists burn. My house is shattered. My family is scattered. My son is somewhere in this building without me.

But I am not quiet. I tilt my head back toward the camera in the corner—the one pretending not to be there—and speak clearly. “You aren’t real agents,” I say. “You’re a costume and a badge and a lot of fear wrapped in white skin.”

A voice crackles over the speaker. “Detainee, cease speaking immediately.”

I smile without warmth. “No.”

The women watch me like I’m either brave or insane. Maybe both.

A guard appears at the door, face already annoyed. “You want to make this worse?”

I look him dead in the eye. “You already did.”

He opens the door like he’s going to pull me out, then hesitates—glances at the room full of witnesses, the camera, the baby. He thinks better of it. The door slams again. The lock clicks. And for the first time since they dragged me out of my home, I feel something settle in my chest. Not power. Not transformation. Just certainty. They can cage me. They can bruise me. But they do not own my voice. And every woman in this room hears that truth loud and clear.

The woman with the baby shifts closer to me and whispers, “They always break the loud ones first.”