Jose Henriquez

The bus ride home is always the worst part of my day. The heat presses in from all sides, the smell of sweat and exhaust mixing into something I’ve long since stopped noticing. I keep my bag clutched to my chest, not because I’m afraid of thieves—though there are plenty—but because I need something to hold onto. Something solid.

I watch the city blur past. Market stalls packed so tight they spill onto the road. A man selling phone chargers, shouting prices at no one in particular. A group of schoolkids balancing on the edge of the sidewalk, their uniforms wrinkled, their laughter sharp. Life in Managua, Nicaragua never stops moving.

I turned twenty-four last month. My mother called from Miami, her voice thick with worry. “Are you sure you’re okay there?” she asked. “You could come stay with me. At least for a while.” I told her I was fine. I told her my job at the law firm was stable. That I had friends. That I liked my life. Lies, mostly.

The bus lurches to a stop near my neighborhood, and I get off quickly, weaving through the crowd. My apartment is just two blocks away, but I take the longer route. It’s habit. I don’t like routines. Routines make you predictable.

The street is quiet when I reach my building. I unlock the metal gate and push it open, the hinges squealing. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of damp concrete. My apartment is small—one room, one window, one door. But it’s mine.

I sit on the bed and take off my shoes. My phone buzzes. A message. It’s from him.

Where are you?

My fingers hover over the screen. I don’t answer. Instead, I reach under my bed, pulling out the small backpack I always keep ready. Cash, a passport, a change of clothes. The essentials.

I’ve done this before. Moved cities. Changed names. Left people behind. I’m good at disappearing.

But this time, something is different.

This time, I don’t want to run.

Not yet.