in the hall

Once again, we're out in the hall, that public space always more private than a crowded room with three closed doors.

The convoluted details are nearly irrelevant, just one more example of life on the undocumented edge, one more object lesson on the fragility of a life not sheltered by paperwork. Many of us are one false move away from one kind of doom or another; the trip wires are just that much harder to see out in the shadows. Danger lurks everywhere. Story told and retold, he sadly spells out a conclusion that might satisfy the smug: his family figures they might as well return to South America, that for six years of hard work they have nothing to show but a family divided and a younger boy who speaks no Spanish. It's not the whole story, but for now it's the focus. I nod and consider.

Today he looks like an overgrown boy, every bit of teenager bottled up like the gel he has left on the shelf instead of sculpted into his hair. His voice is soft and stripped bare, no pretense, no bravado: "I just wanted someone to tell me it's going to be okay."

So I do.

As best I can, as honestly I can, I tell him what seems to me will happen, which worries of his are legitimate, and which are just catastrophizing. I tell him what I know and what I can guess; I tell him I understand. I hear reassurance in my voice even as I explain that I'm not sure. I feel the trust he has in me, and I try to live up to it.

For a few minutes, we talk, straightforward and seriously, until there's no more to say.

"You know where to find me," I say, and he thanks me, again. In separate directions, we each walk away.