Breath 2

Tom arrived at the restaurant flustered, his arms full of the clothes

Mrs. Alvarez had so graciously tossed onto the street.

His uniform was wrinkled, his hair was an unkempt mess,

and a sock still clung stubbornly to his shoulder.

He shoved through the back entrance into the kitchen,

the familiar warmth of simmering curries and

sizzling woks hitting him like a comfort he desperately needed.

Ploy, the restaurant’s owner and head chef,

was already in the middle of preparing orders,

her hands moving expertly as she tossed noodles in a flaming pan.

The rich scent of lemongrass and coconut filled the air.

When she caught sight of him, her eyebrows shot up.

"Laundry situation?"

she teased, eyeing the bundle in his arms.

Tom let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Something like that."

In the corner, Ploy's elderly mother sat hunched over a cutting board,

carefully carving roses out of potatoes to decorate the plates.

She barely looked up, her fingers steady as she worked.

Tom dumped his clothes onto a chair and grabbed a tray of freshly plated dishes.

Before stepping out of the kitchen, he hesitated and turned to Ploy. "You okay?"

Ploy exhaled deeply, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

"Honestly? No. The immigration raid last week… it hit us hard.

The fines alone could shut us down. I have to take more back door loans

just to tide over, I don’t know if we’ll recover. But, the good Buddha will help us"

Tom’s grip on the tray tightened.

He’d been trying to push that memory away—the flashing red and blue lights,

the panicked screams, the sight of people being dragged out the front door

like broken trash.

He glanced at Ploy's mother, still carving, her silence heavy with grief.

"I don’t even know what happened to the others,"

Ploy continued, voice thick.

"Nam, Lek, Wanchai… they took them. Just gone. I contacted their family in

Thailand, but we both know, there’s nothing that can be done."

Her eyes flickered with something between anger and despair.

"How the hell did you manage to escape?"

Tom swallowed hard, his throat tightening.

He looked at Ploy, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

The truth sat heavy in his stomach.

He had survived. But at what cost?

A single tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

He wiped it away quickly, but more followed.

His voice came out in a whisper, cracked and raw.

"Luck" he said.

"In America, our world breathes in fear and shame

the only escape left, is to survive."

The kitchen fell silent except for the quiet sizzle of oil in the pan.

Ploy stared at him, her expression unreadable.

Then, she reached out, squeezing his arm. "Then we survive."

Tom nodded, blinking away the rest of his tears.

He straightened his back, picked up the tray,

and stepped out onto the restaurant floor,

where customers waited, oblivious to the battle happening behind the kitchen doors,

inside, Tom’s chest that’s barely holding everything together.