#redbackpack

#RedBackpack

Bo doesn’t trust phones.

She trusts paper.

Ink.

People who look you in the eye when they say "I got you."

So when she makes the call, she doesn’t make a call.

She writes it on a sticky note.

Folds it.

Walks it to the library.

Lucía stays behind, curled up with Señor Crumble and two fleece jackets that smell like lemon Lysol and cigarettes.

She’s got a flashlight.

A juice box.

And Bo’s voice in her head:

“Stay low. Stay quiet. No sound. You’re doing perfect, mija.”

The librarian is 70 years old and three steps ahead.

She sees Bo’s face and doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

She walks her to the back.

Past the shelves. Past the meeting room.

Into the records archive.

Bo hands her the note.

The librarian reads it once.

Then shreds it, slow and careful, into the recycle bin like it’s scripture.

“You’ll need a ride tonight,” she says.

“He’ll be parked behind the Chinese place. Green sedan. Plates end in 36.”

“When he honks twice, go.”

Bo nods.

“You still keep the folder?”

The librarian points at a drawer.

Second from the bottom. Locked.

“I never stopped.”

There’s a pause.

Bo doesn’t say thank you.

The librarian doesn’t say good luck.

They just look at each other like people who’ve both been underground before.

Outside, the sun’s starting to melt.

#RedBackpack

Bo’s house ain’t big. No cozy shit—tight. Paint’s old, windows stick, and the front lock only works if you kick it twice. Bo kicks it twice.

Lucía steps in. Backpack still on. Bo didn’t ask her to take her shoes off. Didn’t ask anything at all.

The curtains are already shut. A towel’s wedged under the front door. Lightbulb in the hallway’s been unscrewed. The bathroom window? Covered with a blanket and duct tape. Bo don’t trust blinds.

She puts a bowl of sopa on the table. Not warm, but safe.

“You eat,” Bo says. “Then I show you where to hide.”

Lucía just nods.

The hallway closet creaks open like it knows a secret. Bo pulls back the coats, then the trapdoor inside.

It’s dark. Huele a polvo y madera vieja. The kind of smell you remember when you’re older and nobody believes you.

Bo climbs in first.

Her knee clicks. Her spine catches on a nail. She doesn’t flinch.

“Aquí,” she says. “You breathe quiet. No lights. No phone. No sound.” “If someone knocks, no contestas. You wait. You listen.”

Lucía crouches next to her. Eyes wide. Small hands on big floor. She doesn’t cry.

“How long?” she whispers.

Bo doesn’t look at her.

“’Til it’s safe. Or ’til I say run.”

Inside the crawlspace, Lucía finds a dust bunny. Huge. Fluffy. A little gross.

“¿Puedo nombrarlo?”

“You can name whatever the hell you want, sweetheart.”

She smiles a tiny bit.

“Se llama Señor Crumble.”

Bo doesn’t laugh. But she nods like that’s exactly right.

And for the first time since the bus… Lucía feels a little less invisible.

The bus hissed to a stop.

It didn’t know someone was missing.

It didn’t care.

Lucía stepped off.

The red backpack looked heavier today.

Or maybe she was smaller.

Or maybe the whole calle got bigger since noon.

She looked left.

Then right.

Then did a slow circle, like she forgot something.

Like her dad was a set of keys.

He was always there.

Every day.

He’d wave. Smile. Say "Hola, mija" like a password that kept the monsters out.

Today:

Nothing.

Lucía stood still.

The bus pulled away behind her.

The wind played with her hair.

That first little panic note started humming behind her ribs.

Across the street, Bo took one step forward.

It was slow. Measured.

Her hip was pissed off. Her grip on the cane was sketchy.

But she moved like gravity owed her.

Lucía saw her.

Not relief. Just confusion.

Bo didn’t smile. Didn’t reach. Just said:

“Hey, kiddo.”

Lucía blinked.

“Where’s my dad?”

Bo didn’t lie.

“I don’t know yet.

But I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

Lucía’s lip started to shake.

Bo reached into her ragged tote. Pulled out a juice box. Grape.

“You like these?”

Lucía nodded.

Took it.

Sipped.

Didn’t cry.

They stood on the sidewalk.

The street pretended it was normal.

But something had cracked open.

And neither of them pretended it hadn’t.

He was watering the sidewalk.

Just… regando la banqueta.

That’s what Bo would remember most. How normal it looked.

Una jarra de plástico. Muddy boots. Like any other Tuesday.

Then the men came.

No uniformes. No placa. Just that ICE energy without saying the name.

Bo crossed the street. Pulled her phone. Hit record.

“What’s your name?” “¿Dónde está su ID?” “That’s my neighbor. You either badge up or back off.”

They didn’t move. Carlos didn’t scream. He just looked at her—one quick, tired look— and then they took him.

The van slammed shut. The whole calle exhaló.

Behind Bo, a door creaked open. Someone whispered:

“¿Se lo llevaron?”

Bo didn’t answer. Not yet.

Because the school bus was coming.