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stop.”
    Alma forced herself to open her eyes and watch.
    They drove by, in heavy silence. Alma’s cousin Selena crawled over her to press her face and hands against the window. She stared out the window, mesmerized. At six years old, even she knew exactly what this was. How many times had they seen it on television? How many times had it haunted their dreams? An ICE raid. Immigration and Customs Enforcement would put anyone working at the factory without a legitimate Social Security number onto those buses, take them to detention, and then send them out of the United States.
    When they passed the building, Alma’s father pulled into an empty driveway and turned the car around. They had to go back. They had to see with their own eyes what they all felt in the pit of their stomachs.
    They drove by a second time. The metal doors of the plant rolled open, and the workers emerged in two orderly rows. The poultry plant seemed like a prison already, except that the inmates still wore their white hairnets, long white coats, and knee-high waterproof boots. The yellow cloths that covered their mouths when they worked hung limply around their necks. Handcuffs bound their wrists, and they walked flanked by more men in dark combat gear—dozens of them, with guns and sticks slung low around their waists. But no one struggled, no one ran, no one even tugged against the handcuffs. The workers all walked slowly, eyes down, staring at their rubber boots. They boarded the windowless buses that awaited them.
    Alma felt tears sting the corners of her eyes. Maybe a hundred workers. Maybe more. Something about their lack of resistance made her feel helpless, too.
    â€œI see her,” Isa called out. “ T í a Dolores. There.” She leaned forward and pointed toward the long line of workers.
    â€œShe’s coming through the door.”
    T í a Dolores emerged, barely distinguishable from the others, hunched over, deflated. Alma saw that she was crying. Her hands were bound, so tears flowed freely down her cheeks, nothing to catch their fall. Alma felt the tears on her own cheeks, but she couldn’t bring herself to wipe them away.
    They watched Alma’s proud t í a Dolores, always in charge, always right, step onto the bus without resisting. An ICE agent took her elbow and led her up the stairs. She never even looked up from the ground.
    T í a Pera released a deep sob. It tore through the car.
    One cry of agony, and then silence.
    â€œWe should go,” Ra ú l said.
    If they drove by once more, they would recognize neighbors, cousins, friends. They would recognize too many of them. It would be too much to bear. So they pulled away.
    Selena’s head fell onto Alma’s lap, and Alma stroked her hair softly.
    â€œ ¿Ad ó nde? ” Alma’s father asked. Where would they go now? The question seemed to carry more meaning than he may have intended.
    â€œ A la misa, ” said T í a Pera.
    â€œMom,” Isa called out, “you want to go to Mass now? We need to do something.”
    Ra ú l nudged her sharply in the rib. “Shut up, Isa.”
    â€œ Tienes raz ó n, ” Alma’s dad said. “You are right, hermana . Padre Pancho will find someone who can help us. Padre Pancho will help.”
    The parking lot of Santa Cruz was full. Families rushed into the building, heads down and shoulders hunched, as if they were avoiding a heavy rain or a worse catastrophe. Today the church was a safe space, a place where no dark buses would arrive bringing ICE agents in combat gear.
    The scene inside was pandemonium. Children darted around the room unattended, while adults sought friends and consulted one another, sharing whatever information they had. Selena clung to Alma’s leg and watched, in awe, as Alma’s father and aunt disappeared into the mob.
    â€œ Mu é vanse adentro del santuario, por favor. ”
    Se ñ or Fernandez, who usually served as an