Page 8 of The Silence Between

“The pain,” she murmured as I helped her to the bedroom. “My back... from the line. Doctor gave me stronger pills.”

I eased her onto the bed where the kids had been, noticing how they'd already retreated to the corner of the room, a familiar wariness in their postures. Mari had Sophie on her hip, whispering something soothing in her ear. Even Diego, usually bursting with energy, sat unnaturally still.

They'd seen this before.

In the bathroom, I found a different prescription bottle than Mom's usual medication, the label bearing a name I didn't recognize for a dosage that seemed much higher. As Mom drifted into uneasy sleep, she clutched my hand, suddenly lucid.

“Don't tell your father they're gone,” she whispered urgently. “He gets angry.”

After she fell asleep, I called the factory, explained in my most adult voice that Gloria Reyes had a stomach virus, and would return tomorrow. Then I made dinner from what little we had—pasta with the last jar of sauce, no meat, a handful of frozen vegetables to bulk it out.

Dad woke as we ate, emerging from the living room with wild eyes and sweat-dampened hair. He paced the small kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, checking Mom's purse on the counter, growing increasingly agitated.

“Where is it?” he muttered. “Where did she put it?”

Diego shrank in his chair. Sophie, sensing the tension, began to whimper.

“They need to eat, Dad,” I said quietly, stepping between him and the table. “Why don't you sit down with us? There's enough.”

For a moment, I thought he might shove me aside. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, fixed on me as if seeing a stranger.

Without a word, he grabbed his jacket and left, the door slamming behind him.

Mari exhaled shakily. Sophie's whimpers escalated to wails. Diego kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

“It's okay,” I lied, sitting back down. “He just needs some air. Let's finish dinner.”

But the hollow feeling in my chest told me nothing was okay, and the fragile foundation beneath our feet was crumbling faster than I could shore it up.

* * *

The debate teamtryouts were held in room 203, a classroom I'd never had reason to enter before. I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. About fifteen students sat in a semicircle, nearly all of them from West Riverton—designer jeans, casual confidence, easy laughter. Ethan sat at a small desk to the side, a stack of file folders and research materials spread before him.

The debate coach, Mr. Phillips, stood at the front of the room writing the day's topic on the whiteboard: “Economic Assistance Programs: Safety Net or Dependency Trap?”

I almost walked out. Of all the fucking topics, they had to pick the one that would put a spotlight on the exact divide between me and everyone else in the room.

But then I remembered Ms. Abernathy's words about scholarships, about college possibilities. I thought of Mari's bruised arm, of Mom's pill bottle, of Dad's vacant eyes. I thought of escape.

So I stayed, taking a seat slightly apart from the others, conscious of my secondhand jeans and the hole starting to form in the sole of my left sneaker.

Mr. Phillips explained the format: each candidate would present a two-minute argument either for or against the proposition, followed by a brief questioning period. My stomach knotted as student after student delivered polished arguments about “culture of dependency” and “budget deficits” and “intergenerational reliance on welfare.”

When my turn came, I stood, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Economic assistance programs,” I began, my mouth dry, “aren't just abstract policy issues. They're the difference between eating and going hungry, between medicine and suffering, between housing and homelessness.”

I didn't explicitly mention my family, but I spoke about what I knew—how assistance created survival but rarely advancement, how the system trapped people in cycles of just-enough, how the psychological toll of needing help in a society that despised dependency crushed people from the inside.

“The real problem isn't that these programs create dependency,” I concluded. “It's that they're designed to maintain people at subsistence levels while never addressing the barriers that keep them from true self-sufficiency. The debate shouldn't be whether to help people, but how to actually lift them up rather than just preventing them from drowning.”

The room fell silent when I finished. Mr. Phillips, who had been making notes throughout, studied me with an unreadable expression. Several of the West Riverton students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ethan watched me intently, his pen frozen above his notepad.

“That was... passionate,” Mr. Phillips finally said. “Perhaps a bit light on statistical evidence, but compelling nonetheless. Thank you, Mr. Reyes.”

I nodded and returned to my seat, shakiness spreading through my limbs as the adrenaline ebbed.

After the tryouts concluded, I lingered in the hallway, waiting for the crowd to disperse before heading home. Two West Riverton students passed without noticing me, their voices carrying.

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