Nowhere on the Map

The night air hits like a slap.

Cold. Sharp. Real.

The doors burst open and people spill out into the yard—men, women, bodies moving too fast for fear to keep up. Floodlights glare down on a scene that should still be controlled, orderly, owned.

It isn’t.

ICE vehicles line the perimeter like beetles—armored vans, transport buses, black SUVs with government plates and arrogance baked into the paint.Radios crackle uselessly from inside vehicles.

The women who were with me move first. They don’t scatter. They organize. Weapons are redistributed. Keys passed to coordinating vehicles. Doors thrown open. Someone pulls a jacket over a blood-soaked shirt. Someone else vomits once, wipes their mouth, keeps moving. This isn’t panic. This is evacuation. A few of them go straight for the vehicles engines without being told, popping the hoods.

Lowjacks.

“I can pull it,” one says, already on his knees under an armored SUV.

“Same,” another adds. “Give me two minutes.”

Hour is already there. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask. His hands move like memory—efficient, practiced, familiar. Military training doesn’t fade. It waits. “These are tracked,” he says calmly, voice steady despite the blood drying at his temple. “But not well. They rely on compliance, not countermeasures.”

Of course they do.

Eve appears at my side, gripping Ma’s elbow gently but firmly, guiding her through the chaos like she’s done this before.

Ma sees me and her face crumples—relief first, then pride so fierce it almost hurts to witness. She grabs my arm and starts in immediately, sharp Khmer tumbling out of her mouth like a weapon. I don’t understand the words. I understand the tone. She points at Hour. Jabs a finger into his chest. Switches to broken English just for me. “You see?” she snaps at him. “She break cage. You wait.”

Hour winces.

Ma doesn’t stop. “I run from soldiers with guns and fire,” she continues, voice rising, eyes blazing. “I hide babies in rice fields. I cross borders with nothing. And you”—she pokes him again—“need wife to save you?”

There is no cruelty in it. Only truth. Ma turns back to me then, cups my face with hands still shaking. “Alec,” she says again, softer now. “You did right.”

That almost breaks me. Almost. I place my hands over hers and give her a slight bow of my head. Then still push her to Hour so they can be together while I try to deal with the mess I created.

Engines roar to life. Lowjacks are stripped. Wires severed. Plates swapped between vehicles in a blur of practiced motion. Someone laughs once—sharp, disbelieving. A bus lurches forward.

“Everyone on,” I shout. “No lights. No phones. No names.”

They listen. Of course they do. The convoy rolls out not like fugitives, but like ghosts—armored vehicles melting into the dark, headlights dead, radios silent. No GPS. No signal. No breadcrumbs.

We don’t go home. Home is burned, not literally. We need go somewhere worse. Off the map.

As the gate disappears behind us, I finally let myself breathe. Just once. This isn’t freedom. It’s survival in motion. And if the world wants to find us again— They’ll have to learn how to hunt without cages. Because I’m done living in one.