Read Online Dream Things True by Marie Marquardt - Free Book Online

slowly.
    â€œDamn, son,” he said, letting his fist fall to the table, “I don’t think I can help you out there.”
    â€œIt’s OK,” Evan said. “I mean, I understand if you don’t support my decision, Uncle Sexton.”
    His uncle leaned back in his chair. “Well, of course I support you, son,” he said. “I can handle a little grief from your momma. I’ll even run some interference for you.”
    Evan felt his shoulders relax as relief coursed through his body.
    â€œI just don’t think I’ve got any good connections out there.”
    It came as no surprise that a conservative US senator from the South was not well loved in Northern California.
    â€œI’m gonna do my best to come up with somebody to call, but you may just have to wow ’em with your fancy footwork.”
    â€œI can do that,” Evan said, smiling.
    â€œOh, I know you can, boy. I’ve seen you out there enough times to be absolutely sure of it.”
    That was another cool thing about Evan’s uncle. Every season, he made it out to at least a couple of home soccer games, which was always a couple more than Evan’s dad.
    His dad preferred baseball.
    Â 
    Â 
    Crammed into the bench seat of the minivan with her cousins, Alma watched as they turned the corner and entered the country road that led to the Silver Ribbon chicken processing plant. Dozens of American flags flew on the corner, lining the property of US Auto Sales, a used car company that sold junky cars under the bilingual motto, “Buy here, pay here/ Compra aqu í , paga aqu í . ” Its location a block away from the plant gave US Auto a brisk business among the bone poppers, cartilage removers, breast cutters, chiller hangers, and backup killers.
    Alma knew the details of every job at the plant since members of her extended family had done almost all of them. She knew that it was always freezing cold inside, that workers had to stand still on their feet for hours without talking or listening to music; she knew cleanup was one of the worst jobs, but that skin puller was one of the hardest. She knew that machine operators had the best jobs, and that working as a thigh inspector was unusually exhausting. But she also understood that this plant was the reason her family even knew that Gilberton, Georgia, existed. Without it, and without Americans’ apparently inexhaustible appetite for chicken parts, they might all still be farming the rocky soil of San Juan, their little town in Oaxaca, Mexico.
    Alma usually heard the plant before she saw it. A loud horn would announce the opening or closing of the gate in the barbed wire fence that surrounded the entire facility, and then another high-pitched bell would signify the end of the night shift.
    But something was wrong: she heard none of the normal sounds today. Smokestacks rose above the scrubby pinewoods that surrounded the plant, but no smoke rose from them.
    They pulled to the edge of the fence. The gate remained closed. Normally workers would be spilling out by now, and others would be lined up to enter.
    â€œAlma, look,” Ra ú l said. Her brother nodded toward a line of buses inside the empty yard. They were dark blue, with a gold seal on the side.
    Department of Homeland Security.
    Alma suddenly felt dizzy, as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down.
    â€œ Madre de Dios, ” Alma’s t í a Pera whispered.
    The buses stood empty, and so did the yard, eerily empty. Men, still as statues, lined the perimeter of the gray building. They wore dark-blue uniforms, black pith helmets, and tall combat boots. Three letters stretched across the back of their bulletproof vests: “ICE.” And below those letters: “POLICE.”
    Alma swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut. Was this really happening?
    Ra ú l leaned forward. “Keep driving, slowly,” he said to their dad. “Don’t