Breath 12

The hiding spot behind the kitchen wall was barely big enough for one person,

let alone two.

But here they were—crammed elbow-to-elbow in a crawlspace

the size of a broom closet, illuminated by a single flickering flashlight.

The Indian guy sat hunched over,

peeling potatoes like an unpaid intern on his worst day—shoulders tight,

face locked in permanent resignation.

Beside him, Ploy’s ninety-year-old mother carved with ruthless precision,

her knife flashing like she was born as a potato ninja.

Her hands moved so fast they practically hummed.

The contrast between the two of them was jarring—like watching a samurai

perform next to a man trying to solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded.

Then, in the middle of the silence, she paused.

A realization sparked behind her cataract-clouded eyes.

There was a switch somewhere in this cramped hellhole.

A light switch. She remembered now.

Without warning, she reached across him—not delicately.

She went full body.

Crawled over him like a stealthy jungle cat, her frail limbs somehow everywhere at once.

“Whoa, lady!” he whispered harshly, his eyes bugging. “I’m a married man, okay?”

Her face landed smack against his. Lips one inch apart.

Breathing the same panicked, garlic-tinged air.

“Is this the part,” he hissed, “where you take advantage of my innocence?

Really? Now? While we’re hiding from everyone?”

She didn’t answer.

Just gave him a long, unblinking stare that said you’re not really my type,

then finally she found the switch and flicked it on.

A harsh yellow light filled the space.

He yelped. “What the hell, girl?! They can see us now!”

Ploy’s mom pointed at the sealed wall, stone-faced.

No light escaped. The space was completely sealed and insulated.

She turned to look at his potato pile.

Lumpy. Brutal. A massacre of starch.

She winced like someone had farted during temple prayer.

With a sigh, she picked one up, inspected it like a jeweler examining

a fake diamond—then snapped it clean in half.

Tossed it onto the ground. Stomped on it. Spat.

The Indian guy stared, mouth open. “Seriously? That’s not nice, you know.”

He went back to peeling, shoulders sagging deeper.

There was nothing to do in that suffocating pocket of time except

carve potatoes and wait.

Slowly, quietly, they turned the root vegetables into delicate little roses.

“So,” he muttered, “how long have you been illegal in America?”

She didn’t respond.

So, naturally, he turned away and mimicked her exact hand motions,

exaggerated and dramatic like he was in a one-man Broadway show.

“Ohhh I’ve been carving potatoes since the dawn of time.

Since the Inca Empire first blessed the earth with tubers.

I turn them into floating little lotus flowers for green curry

because that’s what makes it ‘super pretty!’”

She stopped mid-slice, gave him the side-eye.

You’re really weird.

Then, without a word, handed him another potato.

He sighed, defeated. “I’m not always like this, you know…I came here with forty bucks

and a dream. Twenty years later—forty delivery trucks, sixty employees, don’t believe everything

you heard on the news, I’ve created sixty American jobs, and then of course,

three kids in college, and a wife who probably just maxed out our credit

card buying those useless gold bangles that almost got us in trouble tonight.

We bought a fancy penthouse with bay views, we were living the American dream.”

He glanced around the crumbling walls.

“Until tonight. When reality hit. And now?

I’m stuck in here, carving root vegetables for people I’ll never meet.”

Right then—the hidden panel slid open.

Ploy stuck her head in, her eyes wide and frantic.

“แม่! เราต้องไปเดี๋ยวนี้!” (Mom! We need to leave right now!)

Her mom didn’t flinch. Calmly, she reached down, picked up a potato, and handed it to her.

“เอาไป ปอกซะ.” (Here. Peel this.)

Ploy blinked. “อะไรนะ?!” (What?!)

The Indian guy, still crouched like a hostage, blinked between them.

“Uh… what’s happening?”

Ploy finally noticed him. Her alarm turned into pure confusion.

“Who the hell are you?!”

He held up a half-peeled potato like it was some kind of badge.

“I… I don’t know anymore. I used to know who I was.”

Ploy narrowed her eyes and hissed at her mom in Thai:

“แม่! ทำไมมีผู้ชายคนนี้อยู่ที่นี่?! เขาเป็นแฟนแม่เหรอ?!:

(Why is this random guy hiding with you?! Is he your boyfriend?!)

Her mom shrugged and said flatly:

“เขาไม่เก่งเรื่องปอกมันฝรั่งเลย.” (He’s terrible at peeling potatoes.)

He scoffed.

“Are you seriously asking if I’m her man? Look, I’m—” he dropped

his voice—“hiding, okay? So if you don’t mind, I’d like to suffer in potato-carving silence.

Why don’t you squeeze your ass here with us, or we’re all gonna

get into trouble, close the fucking wall”

Ploy ignored him, grabbing her mom’s arm.

And that’s when the Indian guy realized something: she came to get her mom out.

He panicked and grabbed her leg.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she hissed.

“No. We’re leaving. You’re staying.”

“But why?!” he said in a confused tone

“I don’t even know who you are!”

His face twisted with disbelief.

“What—what do you mean?! I’m the guy with the curry stain!

I’ve been peeling potatoes with your mother for twenty minutes!”

Ploy stared at him, deadpan. “Oh wow. You’re basically family now.”

He gaped at her. “So what am I supposed to do?!”

Before she could answer—shouts echoed from outside.

Chairs scraped. Someone barked in English.

Ploy froze, her face dropping.

She hissed, “พวกเขากำลังตรวจบัตรประชาชน!” (They’re checking IDs!)

The Indian guy’s face drained of all color.

“Wait, what?!”

Ploy turned, suddenly serious.

“The immigration agents. They’re checking everyone’s ID.

If you don’t have papers—” She sliced a finger across her throat.

He gulped audibly. “I—I can explain—”

“Oh yeah?” she smirked. “You gonna explain it from detention?”

He looked up at her, desperate. “But… can I come with you? Please?”

Ploy’s face hardened. “No. You can’t. It’s too risky.”

“What? Why?!”

“I can sneak my mom out. She’s small, quiet, and half-invisible. You?”

She looked him up and down.

“You’re a grown man with a belly popping out, and talks too much.

You’ll get us all caught.”

He opened his mouth in protest—did she just insulted him

in one sentence, but….then he paused, realizing she was right.

He gaped at her. “So what am I supposed to do?!”

Without further word, she shoved him backward and slammed the panel shut.

The Indian guy clutched a potato like it was his last hope.

Then, quietly, he whispered to it—

“It’s just you and me now, buddy.”

Another pause.

“Maybe… maybe you can marry me for a green card.”

He sighed.

“I don’t mind. You don’t nag like my wife. You’re just… you.”

He stared at the carved rose in his hand, his expression soft.

Then—on impulse—he popped the whole thing into his mouth. Raw.

He froze.

His eyes widened.

Hack. Cough. GAG.

He started flailing in the dark, slapping the walls, wheezing like a dying accordion.

THUMP. THUD. SCRAPE.

Off in the distance, a voice outside paused. Footsteps turned.

Inside the panel:

silence.

Then, hoarsely—

“Fuck. There’s nothing worst in life than to die

with a fucking potato stuck on your illegal throat”