Free Under the Same Sky by Cynthia DeFelice

the crazily racing cars. I wanted to move, but I was riveted by the scene outside the window. And I was scared.
    There were more shouts, more breaking glass, and then the cars began heading up the driveway back toward our house. I could hear the loose gravel flying from under the wheels. They were going so fast!
    â€œDad! Watch out!” I cried. I was vaguely aware of a terrible smell, like rotten eggs, filling the night air. Dad was standing in the middle of the driveway, facing the cars, and he wasn’t moving, and they were speeding right toward him.
    I screamed again, “Dad!” But he just stood where he was, right in their path. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t look away, so I stood there, filled with dread and disbelief, until, at the very last second, when I was sure they were going to run him down, the cars veered around him onto the lawn and then back onto the driveway. Loud squeals came from their tires as they made the turn onto the paved road, and the engines roared as they zoomed away.
    There followed a strange moment of quiet, and then Mom’s voice came from the porch. “Jim, I’m calling the police.”
    I raced down the stairs. Meg was in the kitchen crying, and LuAnn was trying to comfort her while Mom was on the phone.
    â€œWho were those guys?” I asked as I rushed into the room.
    LuAnn shrugged, looking disgusted. “Jerks. Probably drunk.”
    â€œBut what were they doing here?”
    LuAnn gave me a fierce look, glanced at Meg, then back to me. Okay. Obviously, she didn’t want to talk about it in front of Meg. I went out the door and ran down the driveway to where Dad and the crew were gathered outside the trailers. The rotten-egg smell was fading in the breeze but was still pretty awful. It had come, I realized, from some kind of stink bomb thrown by the guys in the cars.
    As I got closer, I could see a mixture of fear and worry and anger on the faces of the crew. Luisa stood with her arms huddled around her chest, looking mostly scared. The guys were all gesturing excitedly and talking in both Spanish and English. Frank’s face was grim and, I thought, frightened. Antonio and Rafael were scowling angrily, and Dad looked as mad as I’d ever seen him. He and Manuel were talking as I approached.
    â€œYou didn’t happen to see any license plates, did you?” Dad asked.
    Manuel shook his head. “No. But one was black pickup truck. Another was long blue car. Two men in the truck, maybe more in the car.”
    â€œYou didn’t know any of ’em, I suppose?”
    Manuel shook his head and turned to the others. I assumed he was asking them if they recognized anyone. They all shook their heads, too.
    Manuel leaned down to pick up one of the broken bottles.
    â€œLeave that,” Dad said sharply, adding, “I want the police to see everything.”
    While we were standing around waiting, Mom, LuAnn, and Meg came out of the house and joined us. Meg went up to Luisa and hugged her, and I saw the only smile of the evening flash briefly over Luisa’s face. It disappeared as a police cruiser came up the drive and stopped near us. Two uniformed men got out, looked around, and began asking Dad questions.
    â€œYou’re having some kind of disturbance here, sir?” asked the younger, shorter officer.
    â€œWe were,” Dad answered. “It appears to be over for now.”
    â€œThese migrant workers are yours?”
    â€œThese people work for us, yes,” Dad corrected him.
    â€œAnd where were they earlier this evening?”
    Dad looked puzzled. “Right here. Why?”
    The younger cop didn’t answer, just asked another question. “They weren’t down at the Bus Stop?”
    The Bus Stop was a low-life bar and grill downtown.
    Dad said somewhat impatiently, “I told you, they’ve been here all night. You ought to be asking about the idiots who came joyriding through