At the west entrance to the detainment camp, government workers string another layer of wire against the wall. It uncoils through human hands like a metal snake without a head. I tell Jaime Mundo, my new trainee, that the fence will be electrified by the time we leave tonight. He nods, fingers twitching for rosary beads that aren't there, and I force a smile his way. We pass the guard house and enter the camp. He's going to have to learn quickly.
The people have been in camps for almost two years now. After the brewery accident in Milwaukee, followed almost immediately by the explosion in North Dakota, they have been under constant supervision in camps like this one. The people had just begun to adjust to North America when the accidents happened. The Department of Defense insists the accidents were sabotage. I try not to let what happened in the past affect my work, yet the facts are always there, like a dull ache or a dry mouth.
I have to force myself, on this gray March morning, not to dwell on the squalor around me. It reminds me of the worst sections of Chicago's south side: the discarded ration boxes in mud puddles, the broken bottles on dead grass, the clothing limp on the line. All that's missing are high-rise tenements. Instead, here we have government-issued Quonset huts and a landscape scraped clean of all trees.
The cold air has numbed my ears already, and our breath forms a cloud in front of our faces. I catch myself starting to believe the few remaining priests left at the Minneapolis rectory who claim that the camps were built to remove the burden of guilt from the people. Many of them are convinced that the people, working as unskilled labor as part of the government's hastily-constructed integration plan, somehow caused the explosions at the brewery and the grain elevator. They tell me again and again that the camps are a way of ensuring safety for us and atonement for the people. Penance through imprisonment.
The sun pushes out from behind some clouds, warming me slightly through my black coat. Jaime slows down next to me, his dark eyes scanning the road and the shadowy entrances to the huts on either side of us. He has barely spoken all morning.
In front of us, young alien voices approach, growing louder. Jaime pauses in mid-step, then sets his foot down.
"When a child comes close to you, don't jerk away," I whisper in his ear. "Just relax."
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