Breath 10
Tom met his father only once. He was fifteen.
His dad had vanished long before he was born,
leaving behind only silence and a last name.
It was Tom who sought him out—tracked him to a crumbling bar
on the outskirts of Guadalajara, lit dimly by flickering neon
and soaked in the stale musk of cigarettes and sour beer
His dad didn’t come for love
Just help. A loan. A chance.
Tom handed over his entire savings—money earned pouring
concrete in the punishing Mexican sun, callused hands,
a back already too old for his age.
His father barely looked him in the eye.
He didn’t even ask how he’s doing in life.
His mom was never mentioned.
He just took the cash. Left without even a thank you.
That was the last time Tom saw him.
His mother disappeared too, in a different way.
She never told him she was leaving for America.
She just vanished. Left behind an empty apartment,
a stack of unpaid bills, and a note that said she had to
start over—alone. “It’s easier this way…”
she’d written. “I can’t afford an excess baggage”
Tom learned early that people leave.
That even blood doesn’t promise loyalty.
What it taught him—branded deep into the bones—was simple:
life doesn’t wait for you to be ready.
Things just happens, usually when you least expect it.
And now, here it was. That moment.
Tom stood at the register, a step away from the dining area.
The polished counter reflected a shaky version of himself,
but he kept his hands steady.
His pulse was screaming.
He’s afraid.
He knew, something is about to happen.
The restaurant buzzed behind him—plates clinking,
soft conversation, the distant rumble of the kitchen.
Then everything changed.
The door crashed open like thunder.
Immigration agents stormed in, dark uniforms slicing through the warm ambiance like blades.
Nick and his agent friends also stood from their table.
The operation is ON.
The buzz of dinner service cracked into a hundred jagged pieces—shouts,
the clatter of chairs, the sharp intake of breath from startled diners.
They moved from table to table with military precision,
barking questions, demanding proof.
Their presence soaked into the air, thick and oppressive.
The scent of lemongrass and sizzling garlic vanished—replaced
by the sharp tang of sweat, adrenaline, and fear.
Tom didn’t move. He couldn’t.
It was happening again.
Not just to him—to everyone in the room.
The undocumented.
The afraid.
The invisible.
And still, even as chaos erupted and lives unraveled,
some people just watched.
They continued with their conversation.
How tasty the Pad Thai, and how much heat they can tolerate.
For a second, Tom forgot that there are two customers waiting in front of him.
He swiped the credit card with a steady hand,
but his pulse told another story.
His eyes darted toward the dining area,
where chaos had erupted like a storm tearing through fragile glass.
Immigration agents moved like wolves through a panicked herd,
their badges flashing under the fluorescent lights.
A woman’s scream cut through the clatter of overturned chairs and breaking plates
as an agent yanked her back by her hair.
A man was shoved against a table, his wrists bound in cold steel.
The scent of soy sauce and fear thickened the air.
The Lady Customer in front of Tom sipped her drink,
watching the scene unfold as if it were a television drama
rather than real lives being torn apart.
“Pretty tough night, huh?” she mused, turning to Tom with an air of casual amusement.
She shrugged, unconcerned.
“Well, they gotta do what they gotta do. Those illegals don’t belong here.”
Tom kept his face neutral, though something deep inside him coiled tight.
“They have their own country, right? Why do they have to squeeze their butts in here?”
She leaned in, smirking as if expecting him to laugh.
Her boyfriend gave a self-satisfied smirk, chimed in.
“Yeah, flooding our borders, stealing jobs, stuffing our ERs just to pop out little anchor babies.”
He turned to Tom and tapped the receipt.
“Where do I sign?” Tom pointed wordlessly to the signature line,
forcing his lips into a polite smile.
Inside, his blood pounded in his ears.
The Lady Customer swirled the ice in her glass.
“I was thinking of getting one of those Thai Tuktuks and driving it around town.
How much do you think that’d cost?”
Tom focused on stirring a pot of Thai Iced Tea, using the simple movement to ground himself.
He needs distraction or he will fall apart.
“Uh… not sure. They’re kinda big. Don’t think they ship them here.”
She sighed dramatically. “Maybe I can find some local guy to repurpose my man’s motorbike.”
Tom handed her a free Thai Iced Tea, her boyfriend also got one,
hoping that was the end of it.
But she wasn’t done. “Oh! Didn’t expect this. Think I could get this to go?”
“Of course,” he murmured, reaching for a lid.
Her man beside her chuckled. “Why don’t we sip our tea right here?”
He nudged her playfully.
“Watch the full drama while they haul those illegals away.”
Laughter.
Slow, indulgent sips.
As if they were watching a show.
Then her gaze flicked to Tom. “So… you’re Thai, right?”
Tom’s stomach twisted. “Uh… no. I’m Mexican”
“Oh. But you’re American? Mexican-American, right?”
A slow beat.
“I’m just… Mexican.”
The smirk slipped from the man’s face.
His tone sharpened, his voice lowering like a blade pressed against flesh.
“Like… illegal Wetbacks?”
He turned toward the nearest agent, raising his voice.
“HEY! You missed one!”
Tom’s breath caught.
The agent’s head snapped in his direction.
The man jabbed a finger toward him.
“He says he’s ‘just Mexican.’ I say he’s a fucking ILLEGAL!”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Everything happened at once.
The agent moved.
The customer lunged for Tom’s arm.
Then—Nick. Out of nowhere,
Nick grabbed Tom’s wrist and yanked him back—fast.
Straight into the kitchen.
