Dedication: For the families being torn apart, the children waiting, and those who refuse to look away.
Disclaimer: The House Next Door is a work of fiction. Though this poem draws upon widely reported practices and incidents related to U.S. immigration enforcement operations, all individual characters, families, and the specific events portrayed are entirely fictional and are not intended to represent any actual persons or particular incidents.
Content Warning This poem contains depictions of federal law enforcement violence, injury to a child, physical assault of an elderly woman, and family separation.
The House Next Door
Mrs. Chen
I had my hands in the dirt that morning, the soil still cool from the night, working it loose around the rose roots. I heard them before I saw them—the children joking, the oldest one’s voice deeper than I remembered from last year, saying something that made the middle one laugh. I turned. The little one was at the window, palm pressed flat against the glass, waving at the others as they walked toward their bus stops. The six-year-old stopped to wave back. The small dog beside him, golden muzzle pushed to glass, watching too. Tuesday morning. The kind of morning I’ve been waking up to for thirty years in this house. The kind of morning where nothing happens.
Jenny
I saw the vehicles from my living room window—three of them, dark SUVs, slowing, then pulling up in front of the house next door. They weren’t parking; they were blocking the driveway. I went to my front door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch. Masked men getting out, vests that said ICE, others in plain clothes. I stood in my doorway and watched. I know the Reyes family. I like them. We wave. Say hi.
They stand at the door and pound. “Police! Open the door!” Fists hammering, not knocking. “Federal agents! Open up!” Why are they saying police when their vests say ICE? Mrs. Chen from across the street is outside too, the older woman who gardens every morning. She has her phone in her hand, recording. I start recording too.
Who else is home? Who can I call to help? I feel panicked. This isn’t supposed to happen next door. I know them. I brought them dinners when the youngest was born. They’ve talked about how they got their green cards. Yes, they are immigrants, but they are legal. I know they are legal.
Mrs. Chen
The door opens, just a crack. The three-year-old. The men shove it wide, the child disappearing behind the door’s swing. The dog runs out, small and golden, barking. The men rush in, boots heavy. Except one who turns, raises his weapon, shoots. The dog drops. Where’s the three-year-old? Swept aside or trampled or pushed, I can’t tell. They’re inside. I’m still holding my phone. I’m still recording.
One of them turns, looks at me across the street. Points.
“Stop recording! Put that phone down!”
His voice loud, clear. I start to lower my phone, but then shake my head and continue. I can see that the woman next door is recording. This is wrong. This is all wrong. This can’t happen on my street.
The Man Who Never Waves Back
I can hear the pounding from inside, loud enough to pull me away from FOX News. I go to the window. Black SUVs blocking the Reyes driveway, agents at the door, the old Chinese lady across the street with her phone out like she’s some kind of activist.
About time someone dealt with the illegal problem on this street. I watch and snort. I always knew they were illegals. That Chinese woman may be too for all I know. Good thing the current administration is so on top of it.
Jenny
I switch to livestream. The dog on the grass, blood spreading. The agent yelling at Mrs. Chen. I step back into my doorway, pull the door almost closed, phone still out, still recording. The agent who shot the dog is walking toward her now, crossing the street. She’s not moving. She’s seventy if she’s a day and she’s standing there holding her phone up at a man with a gun.
Mrs. Chen
He grabs my wrist, twists. My phone falls. He wrenches my arm behind my back, pain sharp in my shoulder. I’m seventy-three years old. He forces me down to my knees, the pavement hard, then pushes my face to the ground, his knee in my back, crushing. I can’t breathe. Metal around my wrists, tight. I hear someone screaming. Is it me? Am I screaming?
Jenny
He grabs her wrist, twists her arm behind her back. She’s a small woman, elderly, and he wrenches her down to her knees like she’s nothing. Pushes her face-first to the pavement. Knee on her back. She’s face-down on the street. He’s cuffing her. My phone is shaking. I’m shaking. This is live. People are watching this. I can see the comments starting.
The Man Who Never Waves
The agent grabs the old lady’s wrist, twists her arm back. She goes down hard, knees then face, right there on the pavement. He puts his knee on her back, cuffs her. She’s tiny under him, face pressed to the street. I laugh. Stupid bitch should’ve put the phone down when he told her to. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. She probably is illegal anyway, who knows. They all lie about it.
Woman in the Car with her Child
I turn onto the street with groceries in the back seat, my daughter in her car seat, and have to stop. Black SUVs blocking the road, agents everywhere. An elderly Asian woman face-down on the pavement, agent kneeling on her back. A small dog on a lawn, not moving. Blood. My daughter makes a sound, pointing.
“Puppy, Mama!! Puppy!”
She’s two. I reach back, turn her seat so she’s facing away from the windshield, hand her her stuffed bear.
“Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
I put the car in reverse but there’s a car behind me now. I’m trapped. I sit there with my hands on the wheel, engine running. I should get out. I should do something. I have a child in the car.
Mrs. Reyes
They pushed past him, my baby, he’s on the floor by the door and I’m trying to get to him but hands grab me, force me back.
“¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!”
Three years old and he opened the door because he heard knocking and now he’s on the floor and they won’t let me reach him. I’m fighting them, trying to get to him.
“Please, he’s just a baby, please let me—”
Someone is shouting about a warrant, about names, about staying calm. My son is on the floor. Not moving. Not crying.
Mrs. Reyes
They pushed past him, my baby, he’s on the floor by the door and I’m trying to get to him but hands grab me, force me back.
“¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!”
Three years old and he opened the door because he heard knocking and now he’s on the floor and they won’t let me reach him. I’m fighting them, trying to get to him.
“Please, he’s just a baby, please let me—”
Someone is shouting about a warrant, about names, about staying calm. My son is on the floor. Not moving. Not crying.
Jenny
I can faintly hear Mrs. Reyes screaming from inside the house. “¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo! Please, let me go to him! He’s hurt! Please!” Her voice breaking, desperate. I can’t see inside from here. I don’t know where the child is. I don’t know if he’s moving. The agents are yelling something back but I can’t make out the words. Just her screaming for her son. My phone is still recording. The comments are flooding in. Someone typed “call 911.” I should call 911. My hands don’t want to move.
With fingers that don’t feel like mine I dial 911.
The dispatcher answers. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s—ICE is here, they’re raiding my neighbor’s house, there’s a child hurt, the mother is screaming, they shot the dog, there’s an elderly woman handcuffed on the street—”
“Ma’am, slow down. What’s the address?”
I give her the address. The Reyes house. My voice sounds strange.
“And you said federal agents are on scene?”
“Yes. ICE. Immigration. They have an old woman on the ground and there’s a child hurt inside and—”
“Ma’am, if federal agents are conducting an operation, we can’t interfere. Is anyone in immediate medical danger?”
“The child—I don’t know—the mother is screaming that he’s hurt—”
“I’ll send a unit to check on the situation.”
The line goes dead. I’m still holding my phone. Still livestreaming.
Show more
6:59 AM
Jenny
I can faintly hear Mrs. Reyes screaming from inside the house.
“¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo! Please, let me go to him! He’s hurt! Please!”
Her voice breaking, desperate. I can’t see inside from here. I don’t know where the child is. I don’t know if he’s moving. The agents are yelling something back but I can’t make out the words. Just her screaming for her son. My phone is still recording. The comments are flooding in. Someone typed “call 911.” I should call 911. My hands don’t want to move.
With fingers that don’t feel like mine I dial 911.
The dispatcher answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s—ICE is here, they’re raiding my neighbor’s house, there’s a child hurt, the mother is screaming, they shot the dog, there’s an elderly woman handcuffed on the street—”
“Ma’am, slow down. What’s the address?”
I give her the address. The Reyes house. My voice sounds strange.
“And you said federal agents are on scene?”
“Yes. ICE. Immigration. They have an old woman on the ground and there’s a child hurt inside and—”
“Ma’am, if federal agents are conducting an operation, we can’t interfere. Is anyone in immediate medical danger?”
“The child—I don’t know—the mother is screaming that he’s hurt—”
“I’ll send a unit to check on the situation.”
The line goes dead. I’m still holding my phone. Still livestreaming.
The Elder Mr. Reyes
I come into the room and see him on the floor by the door, Miguelito, three years old, not moving, not crying. My daughter-in-law is fighting against the hands holding her, screaming
“¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!”
They’re not looking at him. They’re looking at me. I put my hands up.
“I’m who you want. I’ll come. Please, the child—”
One of them grabs my arm, wrenches it behind my back. The wall is cold against my face. Metal around my wrists, tight.
“The child is fine,” someone says.
I can see him from here, his small body, his sneakers with the lights in them. He’s not moving.
“Please, he needs help, he’s not—”
“The child is fine. You need to calm down.”
They’re cuffing my daughter-in-law now too. She’s legal. She has papers.
“He opened the door,” I say. “He’s three years old, he heard knocking, he opened the door. Please.”
Nobody looks at the boy.
The Man Who Never Waves
They’re bringing them out now. The old Mexican guy first, hands cuffed behind his back. Then the woman, also cuffed. Damn illegals. They put them in different vehicles, back seats, heads pushed down. That Chinese woman is already in another one, that busybody. There’s a line of cars stuck on the street, can’t get through. Some woman in the front car with a kid in the back. Far behind her I can see flashing lights—ambulance trying to get through but it’s blocked. Should’ve stayed home if you didn’t want to see this. This is what happens when you break the law. They should have complied. The agents are talking to each other, radios crackling. The house next door is quiet now. No more screaming. I go back to my recliner. My show’s still on.
The Agent
I kneel down next to the kid. He’s breathing, shallow. There’s a bump forming on his head. His eyes are closed.
“Hey, kid. You okay?”
Nothing. I look up at Miller.
“We need to call this in. Kid’s a citizen, he’s hurt. We don’t want this blowing up.”
Miller looks at the kid, looks at the vehicles outside, the crowd forming.
“Call it.”
Miller keys his radio.
“We got a situation. Kid got knocked down during entry. Need EMS.”
“Age?”
“Three, maybe four. Citizen.”
A long pause.
“Shit. EMS is trying to get through but the street’s blocked. Move the crowd back.”
“Street’s full of cars. Ambulance is stuck.”
“Figure it out.”
EMS Responder
We’ve been sitting here for eight minutes. Lights flashing, siren off now because what’s the point. Federal operation ahead, dispatch said. Child injured. Three years old. I can see the back of a Honda, maybe six cars up, completely stuck. Behind it are five more cars. Someone tried to back up, but couldn’t. The street is packed. My partner Jamie is on the radio.
“Dispatch, we can’t get through. Street’s blocked, federal agents on scene. What’s our protocol?”
“Stand by. Local PD is en route to secure.”
“Copy. Standing by.”
We sit. The woman in the Honda ahead has a toddler in the back. She keeps looking in her rearview mirror at us. Lights are still flashing. Three years old. How long has it been since the call came in? Jamie drums his fingers on the dashboard.
“Come on, come on.”
I can see agents moving around up there. People with phones out.
“Dispatch, any ETA on PD?”
“Two minutes out.”
Responding Police Officer
I pull up and see federal vehicles, crowd of civilians, ambulance stuck down the street. My partner and I get out. A woman comes off her porch, phone in hand.
“Officers—there’s a child hurt inside. The mother was screaming that he’s hurt. He opened the door and they—”
She’s pointing at the house. Dead dog on the lawn. Federal agents standing around. EMS is here with their bags.
“We got a call for a pediatric injury,” the medic says. “Three years old. Is the scene secure?”
I key my radio.
“Dispatch, we’re on scene. Federal operation in progress. Need to confirm scene security for EMS entry.”
I walk toward the nearest agent. He’s got ICE on his vest.
“Officer. We need EMS to access the residence. Pediatric injury?”
He looks at me, looks at the medics.
“Scene’s secure. Kid’s inside. We already called it in.”
“Then let them through.”
He steps aside. The medics move toward the house. I stay outside. Not my operation. Not my jurisdiction. Federal agents, federal scene. I’m just here to facilitate EMS access. That’s what I tell myself.
The Elder Mr. Reyes
From the back seat I can see them. Police now. Ambulance crew walking toward the house with their bags. Miguelito is in there. Three years old and he opened the door because someone was knocking and now he’s on the floor and it’s my fault. If I hadn’t come to live with them. If I had left when I knew things were getting bad. If I had papers. If, if, if.
My daughter-in-law is in another vehicle. I can’t see her from here. She has papers. She’s legal. They cuffed her anyway. My son is at work, he doesn’t know. The children are at school, they don’t know. And Miguelito opened the door because he’s three and someone knocked and now he’s hurt and I can see the medics going inside and I can’t do anything. My wrists are tight against the metal. I pray. I haven’t prayed in years but I pray now.
EMS Responder
We step through the door. The entry is small. I see the kid immediately, lying on the floor by the door, on his side. Three years old, maybe four. Bump on his forehead, already purple. Eyes closed. An agent is standing nearby.
“He went down when we came through,” the agent says. “Hit his head, I think.”
Jamie kneels down.
“Hey buddy. Can you hear me?”
The kid’s eyelids flutter. He makes a sound, small, confused. Not crying. That worries me.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
The agent looks blank.
“I don’t know.”
Of course he doesn’t.
“Okay, buddy, we’re going to help you.”
Jamie’s checking his vitals, gentle hands on the small body. Pulse is there, breathing shallow. The bump on his forehead is significant. He has bruises forming on his chest and stomach. Like maybe he was stepped on in the rush.
“Possible concussion, possible internal injuries. We need to transport.”
I’m getting the backboard ready. The kid’s eyes open, unfocused. He starts to whimper.
“Mama?”
“We’re going to take you to see your mama, okay?”
I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know where his mama is. Jamie looks at the agent.
“Parents?”
“In custody.”
“He needs a parent or guardian at the hospital.”
“They’re in custody,” the agent repeats.
“Then you need to release one of them or come with us.”
The agent keys his radio. I tune it out. We’re stabilizing the kid’s neck, getting him on the board. He’s crying now, weakly. That’s better than silence.
“Mama. Quiero mama.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
We lift him. He’s so small. His shoes light up when we move him. Little sneakers with lights in the heels.
Jenny
They’re bringing him out on a board, strapped down, so small. Miguel. His shoes lighting up as his feet bounce softly on the gurney. I run down from my porch.
“Wait—his mother—she’s in that vehicle—”
I point. The medics stop. One of them walks toward the SUV where Mrs. Reyes is. I can see her face through the window, pressed close to the glass, screaming something. The medic talks to the agent, then to her through the window.
He comes back.
“They won’t release her. Does he have any other family here?”
“His father’s at work. The other children are at school. The grandfather—”
I point to another vehicle. Also in custody.
The medic looks at his partner, at the agent.
“We can’t take him alone. He’s three.”
“I’ll go,” I say. “I’m their neighbor. I know the family. Please.”
The medic nods.
“Okay. Come on. We need to go now.”
I walk beside the gurney to the ambulance and climb inside. Miguel is crying softly, confused.
“It’s okay, Miguel. It’s okay. I’m here. We’re going to help you.”
I take his small hand. The ambulance doors close.
Mrs. Chen
They’ve put me in a vehicle but I can still see. The ambulance is leaving with the little boy. One of the agents let the neighbor woman go with him, the one who was recording too. Good. He shouldn’t be alone.
I’m seventy-three years old and I’m in the back of a federal vehicle with my hands cuffed behind me. My shoulder hurts where he twisted my arm. My cheek scraped against the pavement. I can taste blood in my mouth. The dog is still on the lawn.
The parents are in separate vehicles. The street is still blocked with cars. All those people watching and no one stopped it. I tried. I’m old and I tried and now I’m here and that little boy is going to the hospital and his mother can’t go with him.
I had my hands in the dirt this morning. The roses. It was a Tuesday morning and I watched those children walk to their buses and now this. This is my street. This is my neighborhood. And I did what I could.
The Woman in the Car with her Child
The EMTs walk past me carrying a child on a board. He’s not much older than my daughter. I watch in my rearview mirror as they load him into the ambulance. He’s so little. Like my daughter. But she is safe. I’m keeping her safe.
The ambulance pulls away, lights flashing.
One of the black SUVs pulls out with a woman in the back seat. She’s pressed against the window, looking back at the house. Another SUV goes the other direction with an older man inside. I can see the elderly Asian woman in a third vehicle. All of them handcuffed. All of them being taken away.
The agents leaving. The police leaving. The street emptying.
I put my car in drive, hands shaking. My daughter is quiet now, holding her bear. I back up slowly, other cars behind me doing the same. We’re all getting away.
I should have done something. I should have gotten out of my car. I should have—what? I have a child in the car. I have my daughter. I need her to be safe. What happened to the little boy? Why isn’t he safe?
I turn onto the side street, away from all of it. In my rearview mirror I can see more vehicles leaving, people going back inside their houses.
How do I do something and still keep her safe?
The Bus Driver
I make my afternoon route same as always. Turn onto the street at 2:38 p.m. I’ve been driving this route for six years. I know which kids get off where. The Johnson boy at the corner. The Hassan twins halfway down. The little Reyes girl—she’s the youngest on this street, always has her backpack on backwards, always waves at me before she gets off.
There are tire marks on the street. Fresh. Something happened here. And then I see it. The dog on the lawn. Small, golden. Not moving. I slow down. The house door is standing open. No one outside. No parents waiting. The little Reyes girl is already standing, backpack on, ready to get off. This is her stop. She’s six years old. I look at the open door. The dead dog. I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep her on the bus. This is her stop. These are the rules. I have to let her off. I open the door.
“Sweetie—”
But she’s already bounding down the steps.
She’s running toward the house.
“Coco! Mama!”
She sees the dog and stops. Stands there looking at it. Then she calls out again.
“Mama! Miguel!”
No one answers. She goes to the door. I pick up my radio.
“Dispatch, this is Bus 47. I need you to contact Adams Elementary. The Reyes child, first grade, just got off at her stop. No parent pickup. The house—something’s wrong here. There’s a dead dog on the lawn and the door is open and it looks like no one’s home.”
“Copy, Bus 47. We’ll notify the school.”
The little girl is touching the dog. I can see her shoulders shaking. She’s crying. I can’t leave the bus. I have eleven other kids behind me.
A car pulls into a driveway three houses down. A man in a work shirt, just getting home. I flag him over, wave urgently through my window. He sees the little girl, sees me, walks toward her. The kids on the bus behind me are crying now too. They’ve seen the dog. Some sob loudly, some just have tears rolling down their cheeks, like their eyes have sprung a leak.
“Dispatch, you need to start contacting parents. The last twelve children for my final six stops have been traumatized.”
A pause.
“Oh, god.”
I’ve done what I can but it isn’t enough. I reluctantly put the bus in gear and drive on.
The Working Neighbor
I get out of my car and notice the bus driver waving me over. She points to a little girl hugging a bloody and clearly dead dog. I walk toward her.
“Hey—hey, sweetie. Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, face wet with tears.
“Coco’s dead. And Mama’s not here. And Miguel’s not here.”
I look at the open door. At the tire marks on the street. I nod and reach out my hand to her.
“Come on, let’s sit on the step, okay? We’ll figure this out.”
She takes my hand. The bus is pulling away. The street is quiet. What the hell happened here? I’ve lived on this street for three years. I know the Reyes family. I wave to them. Good people.
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Sofia.”
“Okay, Sofia. Let’s call your mama, okay?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“That’s right, Sofia. That’s good. Okay. We’ll go and sit on the step, okay? Do you know where your mother is?”
She shakes her head. Fresh tears.
“She’s always here. She’s always here when I come home. And Miguel is always here too. And now Coco is…”
She looks back at the dog. I don’t let her go back. I sit on her front step with her. Six years old. No parents. Dead dog. Open door. Tire marks. I pull out my phone. Should I call 911? The school? I don’t know.
“Do you have a phone number for your mama?”
She nods. Recites it carefully, the way kids do when they’ve memorized something important. I dial. It rings. And rings. Voicemail.
“Hi, this is calling about your daughter Sofia. She’s home from school but no one’s here. There’s—something’s happened. Please call me back.”
I give my number. Hang up.
“Okay, sweetie. We’re going to wait right here, okay?”
Another bus is coming down the street. Middle school bus.
“Sofia, stay right here on the step, okay? Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
I step through the open door. The entry is small. There’s a shoe rack knocked over, shoes everywhere. A child’s drawing on the floor, trampled. Farther in I can see the kitchen. Chairs pushed back. Breakfast dishes still on the table. In the living room, couch cushions disturbed. Everything feels wrong. Violated. I grab a blanket from the couch, come back out. Sofia is where I left her, hugging her knees. I walk to the dog, drape the blanket over it. Cover the blood. The small body.
“Thank you,” Sofia whispers.
I sit back down next to her. The middle school bus is turning onto the street now.
“Sofia, do you have brothers or sisters?”
The middle school bus stops three houses down. A girl gets off, backpack slung over one shoulder. She starts walking toward us. Eleven years old. I can see the moment she notices. Her steps slow. She sees me sitting with her sister. Sees the blanket on the lawn. Sees the open door. Her face changes. She starts running.
“Sofia! What happened? Where’s Mama?”
Sofia starts crying again.
“I don’t know! She wasn’t here! And Coco—”
Emma looks at the blanket. Looks at me.
“Who are you?”
“I live three houses down. I just got home from work. Your sister got off the bus and no one was here. Do you know how to reach your parents?”
She’s pulling out a phone. Her hands are shaking. She dials. Waits.
“Mama? Mama, where are you?”
Pause.
“It’s going to voicemail.”
She tries again.
“Papi? Papi, something’s wrong. Come home. Please come home. Mama’s not here and I think… I think Coco’s dead.”
She’s looking at the house, at the tire marks, at me, at her sister. She disconnects.
“What happened? Where’s Miguel?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I just got here.”
Emma stares at the tire marks. At the open door. Her face goes pale.
“The door’s open. Mama never leaves the door open.”
She looks up and down the street.
“Were there cars? Black cars?”
I think about the tire marks. Fresh. Multiple vehicles.
“I don’t know. I just got home. But those marks—they’re fresh.”
“ICE,” she says, voice flat. “They took them. Didn’t they? They took Mama and Abuelito.”
She looks at Sofia.
“And Miguel. Where’s Miguel?”
Sofia shakes her head, crying harder.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t here.”
Emma’s breathing is getting faster.
“He was home. He’s always home. He doesn’t go to school yet. He was here when they—”
She stops. Looks at me.
“We need to find him. He’s three. Where would they—would they take a three-year-old?”
I don’t know what to tell her.
“Let me try your dad again. Can you give me his number?”
She recites it, voice shaking. I dial. It rings twice.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice. Confused. Probably doesn’t recognize my number.
“Mr. Reyes? This is your neighbor from down the street. I’m here with your daughters. Something’s happened. You need to come home right now.”
“What? Who is this? Where’s my wife?”
“I don’t know. Your daughters are here. The house—the door was open when Sofia got home. There are tire marks. Your daughters think ICE—”
“I’m coming. I’m coming right now. Don’t let them go anywhere. Keep them safe. Tell Emma—tell her to call Tía Rosa. The number’s on the fridge. Tell her—”
His voice breaks.
“I’m coming.”
He hangs up. Emma is already standing.
“I need to go inside. I need to find Tía Rosa’s number. And I need to see if—if there’s anything that tells us where Miguel is.”
“Emma, wait. Let me go look. You stay here with your sister.”
“It’s my house.”
“I know. But—”
I look at the open door, thinking about what I saw inside. The mess. The violation.
“Let me check first, okay? Make sure everything’s… okay.”
She looks at me, then at Sofia sitting small on the step, then back at me. She understands what I’m not saying.
“Okay. The numbers are on the fridge. Tía Rosa’s number and other numbers. And look for—look for anything about Miguel. A note. Anything.”
I nod. Go back inside. The kitchen is worse than I thought. Drawers pulled open. Papers on the floor. Someone was looking for something. Or maybe just chaos. The fridge has a list of numbers, like she said. I take a photo with my phone. Tía Rosa. Work numbers for both parents. Emergency contacts. I look around for anything about Miguel. Nothing. No note. No sign of where a three-year-old might be. I come back out.
“I got the numbers. Your dad’s on his way. There’s no note about Miguel.”
Emma’s face crumples. Sofia doesn’t understand yet, not fully. Another bus is coming down the street. High school.
The bus stops and both girls are running before Carlos even gets off.
“Carlos! Carlos!”
He steps down, sees them running, sees me standing on their lawn, sees the blanket. His face goes hard. He’s fifteen. Tall. He drops his backpack and catches Sofia as she crashes into him.
“What happened? Where’s Mom?”
Emma is talking fast, words tumbling.
“She wasn’t here. Sofia came home and no one was here and Coco’s dead and the door was open and there are tire marks and Papi’s coming and Miguel’s gone—”
“Slow down. Miguel’s what?”
“Gone. He’s not here. He was home this morning and now he’s not here.”
Carlos looks at me.
“Who are you?”
“I live down the street. I got home from work, saw your sister—”
“ICE?” he asks.
I nod at the tire marks.
“Your sister thinks so.”
He closes his eyes. Opens them.
“Okay. Okay. Did anyone call Dad?”
“He’s on his way.”
“And Miguel—”
His voice cracks. He’s trying to be the adult but he’s fifteen.
“Where’s Miguel?”
No one has an answer.
Carlos looks up and down the street.
“Did anyone check with Jenny? She’s always home. She lives right there—”
He points to the house next door.
“She would have seen something.”
“I haven’t,” I say. “I just got here maybe an hour ago.”
Carlos is already walking toward Jenny’s house, still holding Sofia’s hand. Emma follows. I follow them. He knocks. No answer. He knocks harder.
“Jenny! It’s Carlos! Are you home?”
Nothing.
He tries the doorbell. Waits.
“She’s always home,” he says again. “She works from home. She would have seen—”
He looks at the driveway. Her car is there.
“Her car’s here. Why isn’t she answering?”
“Maybe she’s not home,” Emma says. “Maybe she went somewhere with someone.”
“Or maybe—”
Carlos doesn’t finish. Maybe she’s hiding. Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she saw and doesn’t want to open the door.
We go back to their lawn. Wait.
It seems forever before a truck pulls up fast, parks half on the curb. A man jumps out, leaves the door open, engine still running. Mr. Reyes. The kids run to him. All three of them talking at once. He’s holding them, looking over their heads at the house, at the blanket on the lawn, at me standing there. He comes toward me, kids attached to him.
“What happened? Tell me everything.”
“I got home from work around 2:30. The little one—Sofia—was getting off the bus. No one was here. The door was open. There’s—”
I gesture at the blanket.
“The dog. And there were tire marks. ICE, maybe. I called you as soon as Emma got here.”
“And my wife? My father?”
“I don’t know, sir. The kids tried calling your wife. No answer.”
“And Miguel?”
His voice is breaking.
“My youngest. He’s three. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t here when Sofia got home.”
Mr. Reyes closes his eyes. His hand is on Carlos’s shoulder, gripping tight.
“Okay. Okay. I need to—”
He pulls out his phone. Starts dialing.
“Tía Rosa? It’s me. Something happened. ICE, I think. Maria’s not here. My father’s not here. Miguel—I don’t know where Miguel is. Can you come? The kids—”
He’s pacing now, phone to his ear. I stand there, useless.
“Sir—is there anything I can do? Anyone else I can call?”
The Working Neighbor (continued)
He shakes his head, still on the phone with his sister. Then another car pulls up. A woman gets out. Pale, shaking. Jenny.
“Carlos!”
She’s running toward them.
“Carlos, Emma, Sofia—”
“Jenny!”
Carlos breaks away from his father.
“What happened?”
“I was—”
She’s crying.
“Miguel’s at the hospital. He got hurt when they came in. He hit his head, and was stepped on. Concussion, internal bleeding. I went with him in the ambulance because your mom couldn’t—”
She looks at Mr. Reyes.
“They took her. They took your father. They wouldn’t let her go with Miguel so I went. I didn’t have your number. The doctors are still with him. They’re doing tests. He was awake for a little while, asking for his mama.”
Mr. Reyes is already moving toward his truck.
“Which hospital?”
“Mercy General. Pediatric ICU.”
He stops.
“ICU?”
Jenny nods.
“The internal bleeding—they’re monitoring him. He needs surgery. They need parent consent.”
Mr. Reyes looks at his three children. At Jenny. At me.
“Can you—both of you—can you stay with them? Just until my sister gets here?”
And in the end
The sun is going down. Long shadows across the street.
The man who never waves is inside his house watching television. He’s muttering about how Greenland must be defended, whether they want to be or not.
Mrs. Chen is somewhere in federal custody, but will likely be released. The elderly woman who gardens, whose hands were in the dirt this morning, isn’t here to see the evening.
Mrs. Reyes is somewhere in federal custody. They won’t tell her about her son’s condition. She is frantic. They are talking about deporting her. They won’t let her call a lawyer. They won’t listen about her legal status. She isn’t a person to them. She’s just a job.
The grandfather is somewhere in federal custody. They say they are going to deport him to Peru. It doesn’t seem to matter that he is from Mexico.
Miguel is in surgery at Mercy General. He’s in critical condition.
The woman with the toddler made it home. Put her groceries away. Gave her daughter dinner. Put her to bed. Her head filled with what happened and what she could have done.
Jenny, who livestreamed, posted the video. It has thousands of views now. People commenting. People sharing. People watching what happened.
The working neighbor is home, but he got a spade and buried Coco before he left. He made sure the kids had pizza, but he wishes he could have done more.
The children are with their aunt.
All along the street, in houses with their lights on, behind their closed doors and drawn curtains, people who saw. People who heard. People who did nothing.
It was a Tuesday.
The children went to school.
And this is what they came home to.
This is The House Next Door.
Unsolicited
Current Events
The House Next Door
Laura Gerling
(c) 2026
Author’s Note:
I wrote this poem because silence is complicity. Between January and October 2025, ICE arrested over 220,000 people, approximately 75,000 with no criminal record. And 2026 promises to be worse.
Legal residents have been detained and deported. Citizens have been arrested for filming raids. Children have been left without parents. These are not hypotheticals—these are documented realities.
On any given Tuesday, somewhere in America, children come home from school to find their parents gone. This is not metaphor. This is policy.
The Reyes family, and all their neighbors, ICE agents, police, and first responders are fictional, but their story is built from pieces of truth that should not be ignored.
If you want to learn more about your rights and how to support affected communities, resources are available through the National Immigration Law Center (nilc.org), the ACLU, and local immigrant rights organizations.
Laura Gerling, unsolicited Poet and educator 