The Crocodile God

Part 12.

"Mirasol." Hadassah calls. They're not cuffed anymore, but the bars between their cell and the next one cast a shadow across their faces.

"You, too?" Her breath starts to hitch, but the room is cold and she's already cried enough for the past couple of days; the most she can manage is a couple of sandy rasps of her eyelids.

"What the hell were they talking about?" Hadassah wonders. "The ocean? Was Haik wearing cologne? Or aftershave?"

"Sure." She laughs. "Right before we tried to escape from ICE, Haik took a shower and drenched himself in cologne."

She thinks about the truth--Haik is the sea-god of the Tagalog tribe, from long before Spain and Islam combined, and he always smells of the ocean--but she's tired. She wants to get out of here with Hadassah, find Haik and take him home, and feel the volcanoes burning in his skin.

But the police know where she lives, she realizes with a sinking feeling. Her house is still safe, but it's outside the walls that's the problem.

"Maybe they went a little crazy." Hadassah crosses to Mirasol's side and leans into her shoulder. "They could barely aim a taser, after all."

From where they sit, they can't hear anything outside the door, and there's no one inside the next cell yet. There's only the sluggish, fractured light through the window to mark the passing of time, and it's too high for them to look out even while standing on the bench; it's clearly daylight now, but Mirasol has to tap out the minutes with her hand, since both their phones are gone.

"I wish they picked after we got out to go nuts," she sighs.

Then more waiting, until the light starts to cool down. (Three hours and forty-six minutes later, to be specific.)

And a guard walks past their cell, sparing a glance at them, but he cruises right past.

---

An hour and twenty-eight minutes after that, Haik arrives. Two guards are dragging him along; they dump him in the cell next door.

"Haik!" Mirasol bolts across the cell. "Are you okay? Where were you?"

"I'm fine, lovey." He inches up with the help of the wall. "They were just interrogating me."

"Interrogating?! About what?" She tries to reach him through the bars.

"Asking where I came from. Then where my parents came from," he laughs. "Where I lived before I got to you. Any crimes I did. And whether I had any documents, of course."

"It took them a day to ask you some fucking questions?"

"Well, you know white people." And now comes the unsteady walk towards her. "Asians can't just tell them where we live. We have to give our life story, medical records, and genealogy. Plus I had to repeat that shit three or four times, since they were testing if I could keep my story straight. 'Four cousins? You said you had five!' Well, two of them are twins, the youngest one got lost in foster-care until he was eight or so, and then Rambo tased me AND the TV. I'd like to see you lot keep everything straight--"

"Haik." She gets her arm around his elbow, tight but brittle and shaky. "Please stop."

"Ay." A laugh.

"Does it still hurt?" She can't see his back. Did the lightning leave marks on his tattoos?

"Tasing isn't that bad, lovey. Just hurts like a bitch." He arcs down to meet her, smile flashing in the last of the sun. "It's a little foggy up here, but I can fuck with people if I concentrate."

Despite their efforts, they can't get through the bars, so Mirasol snakes her arm higher around his neck for the ungngo.

Their foreheads can't make contact, not with the bars in the way--but she feels his breath hissing past her cheek, a patch of his neck pulsing under her arm like lava, and she strains like a horse towards him until her temples start to sting.