There should have been two guards watching that block, but one had been absent for three days, reportedly sick with chickenpox. Only one guard remained, pulling double shifts. Unlike most guards with their harsh faces, Guard Martin had a calm, comforting presence.
That day, a young boy arrived, acting tough at first, but he wept the moment he touched the prison bars.
“Xavier… Xavier… stop crying,” said the sturdy man. “Do you want to spend your days here weeping, Xavier?”
He skipped lunch, taking only a few sips of water all day. He thought prison food would be bland, cooked without salt, just something to fill the stomach. He should have eaten at noon; now his fingers trembled.
“Xavier, eat,” the guard said. “You won’t get through the day without food. The food here isn’t as bad as you think. Eat, Xavier.”
Xavier gave in. He touched the steel bowl gently, sniffed the thick soup that looked tasteless, scooped a bit, and tasted it. His tongue barely registered flavor, but his stomach was grateful. Slowly, he ate the soup until it was gone. He let out a small burp after drinking.
“Xavier… Xavier, now you’re full,” the guard said. “Don’t be sad anymore.”
Five months ago, a protest had swept through the city center. Thousands poured into the streets, demanding fair wages, a stand against the sudden cuts imposed by the port authorities that had left workers struggling. Xavier was there, far in the back, watching his father speak with a voice full of fire. Xavier knew what they were fighting for. For an hour, thousands sat in the streets, clapping, raising fists, shouting words of defiance.
It wasn’t the first protest, but it was the first to turn chaotic. It started with a tear gas canister that fell among the crowd, fired by a young officer—by mistake. A protester threw it back, and it landed right in front of the police line. The police fired more tear gas, then charged. Thousands scattered, fleeing into narrow alleys, hiding, or putting up a small fight. But that wasn’t why Xavier ended up in this prison.
“Poor Xavier,” the guard said. “So young, and already in this cursed place. I feel for you, Xavier.”
There was no clock on the wall. No window or crack to show if night had come. The only sign was when the cell lights went out, marking nine o’clock.
Xavier approached the iron bars, gripping them. They were cold.
“Xavier… Xavier, sleep,” the guard said. “Tomorrow will be heavy. Every day here is heavy. Prison isn’t a place for idling, as you might think. Until the time comes, everyone has their schedule. I can’t stay with you forever. Rest, Xavier.”
Footsteps echoed, then the corridor door opened. Another sturdy man appeared, keys jangling at his belt. He stopped beside Xavier and said, “Go home, kid. You did good work today. Be back before eight tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Xavier watched the man disappear through the door. He admired him, felt deep gratitude. Without him, visiting his father so freely would have been nearly impossible.
It had been three months since he’d seen his father. His mother had visited twice, navigating complicated procedures. Xavier had tried several times to see his father, only to be stopped by a guard.
“Go away! Prison’s no place for kids,” said a guard named Ruiz.
He returned a week later and was turned away again. This time, it was a kinder, heavier guard.
“No Guiterrez here, kid,” said Guard Ramos. “Try the District Prison.”
The next week, he came back, and Ruiz sent him away again.
“No visits today!” Ruiz snapped.
A month later, Xavier returned, but not as a visitor. The guard he spoke to seemed older than his father, thin, tall, and very busy. Without looking at him, the guard said, “Cleaning jobs are registered at the south lobby.”
That was how it happened, how he found a way to see his father. He’d learned about the cleaning job from the wife of his father’s friend, who visited her husband—the man Xavier knew as Guard Martin. The hiring process should have been difficult; he was still too young. But Guard Martin helped him get through. With a convincing tone, he told the interviewer that Xavier was a hard worker who could be paid cheaply.
It was 9:15 p.m. In fifteen minutes, the last bus to his village would come. He looked at the sturdy man behind the bars.
“Xavier, my son,” the man said, his face emerging from the dark. “Give my regards to your mother. Tell her your father is doing fine.”
* * *
