Free The Woodlands by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

using his arm to ‘guide’ me out of the way.
    Changing tack, I looked down at my feet, trying to appear humble, tugging on my ponytail, saying quietly, “I’m being surrendered.” It didn’t work.
    Paulo expertly took control of the situation. He introduced himself and shook the man ’s hand. Paulo called my mother over and asked the man to scan her. The Guardian called up her information on his portable reader. It would all be there—her pregnancy, her due date, everything. Our lives were a transcript, a series of dot points and dates. I felt violated that someone could reach into our lives and take little pieces, but this was life in Pau Brasil. Nothing really belonged to us, not even our pain.
    After staring at the reader for some time, the man stood, straightening his uniform. “Very well, here’s your ID sticker,” he said, not even looking up as he scrawled my number across the yellow sticker in big, black numbers. “Put it on your bag and check it with the others.” He closed down his reader and left the station. I must have been the last one.
    As I put my bag down and made my way to the middle where everyone was standing , Paulo stopped. “Wait!” he said to the Guardian we had just spoken to. I was confused—was he having second thoughts? I had a sudden fear that he may have changed his mind. That he was going to make me stay. A tiny part of me flickered like the blue flame on a gas burner, not warmth, just the inkling of the idea of heat. Did he actually care about me?
    Paulo spoke to the man for a few seconds. I couldn ’t hear what they were saying but the Guardian nodded and handed him an envelope. The flame was snuffed out in an instant, leaving a blackened, cold ring. The money. He was securing his payment for my early surrender. I returned my eyes to the center circle.
    There were only a few of us milling around . The circle’s large, paved sandstone ground and elaborate design was so out of place amongst the rest of Pau, which was concrete, plastic, and air conditioning. The center podium was darker than the rest of the stonework. Too much blood they could never quite get rid of, no matter how hard they scrubbed. I think, now, they put plastic sheeting down to protect it. Dark and light stones alternated from the center circle, like the circle was the sun and dotted stone lines radiated out from it like rays of light.
    Everyone else had taken his or her place near the helicopters. I couldn’t see Joseph but I knew he must be there. No matter how hard I tried he was always there, in the back of my mind, threatening to unhinge me. I needed strength at this point, not the heart-skipping vulnerability that kept creeping into my head.
    The helicopters were stationed at the rim of Ring One, just inside the low, sandy-colored wall that surrounded the center podium. They were waiting, crouching like black angels ready to lift us from this place, this hell, into an unknown world. A Guardian in black uniform with gold trim walked to the front of the choppers and signaled for us to come forward. Another one threw the bags in the cargo hold as he read from his list. Three girls and eight boys. Joseph’s name was not on the list. I felt a flood of relief that was washed away by panic. I was barely holding myself together as it was, seeing him was liable to make me fall to pieces. But he was supposed to be here.
    Paulo ’s hand was on my back, pushing me towards the helicopter like I was an uncooperative apple on the conveyor belt. I was trying so hard to muster up some courage. Today I was leaving the only home I had ever known. I would never see my mother again. I felt the anxiety rising, the crushing pain of the separation I was about to suffer. Suddenly the grey-washed town didn’t look so horrible. It was home after all, I guess. I told myself it was fear that was making me feel this way. It didn’t help.
    My mother, who had been quietly following us around like a dazed puppy, pulled me to her