The wolf’s growl had built into an ear-splitting snarl. The low rumble of its voice rippled outwardly and steadily became louder until it broke into a bellowing howl that shook the ground. Like wildfire, a chorus of wolves joined in unity, their voices harmonizing as if they were born from a single soul filled with unbridled rage, malice, and an implacable thirst for vengeance.

A dense lock of vantablack hair billowed through the air and quickly took shape, morphing into a lean and powerful wolf. Its midnight fur was indistinguishable from the dark sand, which whipped around a forgotten building. Tiny strands of its unruly mane danced on the gusts of wind, as if an invisible plague was engulfing the land.

Inside the American immigration center, Marisol, a stunning 42-year-old Cambodian-Filipino woman from Venezuela, lay beneath a silver blanket on a cheap rubber mat. The fatigue etched across Marisol’s face was evident, her weariness made her body feel heavy. The scent of unwashed clothes and stale air lingered, intermingling with the sterile odor of cleansers. Her senses heightened despite weeks without a shower, as she displayed keen awareness of her surroundings.

The room hummed with the buzz of conversation among Venezuelan women, their worries and fears filling the air. The dual-language signs adorned the walls with bold and imposing words like “Border” and “Immigration.” Marisol, her eyes closed, sniffed the air and scrutinized her surroundings. The brushing of bodies sounded like butterfly wings brushing against one another. Her senses absorbed a blend of scents - a mix of female sweat, desperation, and the lingering discomfort of unwashed bodies. Marisol, though tired, remained keenly aware of her surroundings. She heard a scuffed leather bag brush against someone as they walked in low heels. Her ears perked up as this detail etched itself in her attention. She heard one of the male guards stopped a woman, examined a plastic badge, and allowed her to continue.

Supatra, a 34-year-old Thai-Norwegian with long trusses of brown textured hair, moved gracefully through the worn clothes-clad crowded space.

Her laminated badge glinted in the light as she passed security fences that separated the women, adding to the feeling of confinement. The manifestation of the harsh border policies was a cold and unforgiving space. Chain-linked fences stretched high, creating a cage that confined individuals desperately seeking a better life. The floor, devoid of any warmth, consisted of unyielding concrete, offering no respite for those who spent time here. Within this stark and utilitarian environment, enclosed by tall chain-link fences, the austere enclosure held the absence of windows. A solitary toilet, lacking any privacy, stood in a corner, lacking a modicum of sanitation. The lack of seating meant detainees either huddled on the cold ground or stood, further adding to the discomfort. The air, heavy with the scent of uncertainty and anxiety, hung over the fenced area, amplifying the harsh realities faced by those seeking refuge in the complex web of freedom.

The gate opened as the phone in her scuffed brown bag vibrated. She frowned and kept going. Marisol inhaled the sterile air deeply, her senses sharpened by weeks without proper rest or hygiene. As Supatra approached, Marisol rose to her feet, her movements carrying the weariness of countless nights spent in uncertainty. “Marisol?” Supatra’s smile was warm, her eyes holding a deep understanding.

Her wry grin greeted Supatra. ¿Quién eres tú?” (Who are you?)

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“Un aliado. Fui enviado por ti.” (An ally. They sent me for you.) Supatra’s flawless Spanish resonated, devoid of any discernible accent. Marisol handed a blanket to a woman, the Caribbean dialect of gratitude filled the air. The woman, marked by trauma and scars, stood silent and numb. Marisol acknowledged her with a nod. “¿Qué hay de mi tribu?” (What about my tribe?) Her question flowed over her shoulder as she caught the pain in the immigrant’s eye. The woman thanked her with a Caribbean dialect, seemingly overwhelmed by everything she’s gone through.

“Aquí. El Get of Fenris espera.” (Here. The Get of Fenris waits.) Supatra’s response held a weight of shared history.

The two women headed toward an exit, passing through walls marked by uniformity resembling a prison. “Todos están respondiendo la Llamada.” (Everyone is answering the Call.) Supatra spoke as they navigated the labyrinthine route.

“¿Cuántos más?” (How many more?)

“Todos nosotros.” (All of us.) The interview rooms, resembling claustrophobic cells, bore witness to exhausted souls. Not much bigger than a broom closet. They noted another woman with her head down, exhausted to her core. White walls and floors, white ceiling, bright fluorescent lights, white door handles, if there are any. The two women pass into a labyrinthine route of hallways, offices, and work rooms. A large dose of discomfort and desperation mopped the floors and painted the walls. Supatra noted the poor state of the woman, her shoes looked as if she’d retrieved them from a trash fire. She stopped for a moment and pulled off her own, then quickly handed them to the grateful woman.

“¿Has visto ‘El Cuento de la Criada’?” (Have you seen ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’?) Supatra’s voice hinted at shared narratives as she spoke off her shoulder.

“Sí. ¿Qué hay de eso?” (Yes. What about that?)

“¿Cómo te sientes sobre el cambio climático?” (How do you feel about climate change?) Supatra’s unexpected question mirrored the twists of their journey.

Marisol’s dubious look accompanied her as they moved, doubts filling her eyes. “¿Qué tiene esto que ver con la Convocatoria?” (What does this have to do with the Call?)

“Toda.” (Everything.) Supatra maintained her enigmatic demeanor.

“No me dijiste tu nombre.” (You didn’t tell me your name.)

“No. No lo hice.” (No. I didn’t.)

Marisol shook her head.

Outside, the immigration center’s door opened to a blast of hot air. An agent glanced at Marisol’s bare feet; his disbelief palpable as she stepped onto the blistering sand without flinching. He shrugged as if he'd seen it all and turned away. Marisol asked, “¿Tienes algún cachorro?” (Do you have any pups?)

“Cinco. ¿Tú?” (Five. You?)

“Cuatro. Ya vinieron.” (Four. They already came.) The harsh sun tormented their eyes.

Supatra donned sunglasses, offering another pair to Marisol. Her eyes smiled in appreciation.

“Nuestro carro nos espera.” (Our chariot awaits.)

She motioned to a 2009 Honda CR-V with a sunshade in the window. Supatra and Marisol got into the car, and Supatra leaned over to the backseat and pulled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She hands them to Marisol. Marisol lets them rest on her lap. She takes a deep breath. “Gracias. ” (Thank you.)

Supatra nodded in reply. She started the engine and turned on the air conditioner, which provided immediate relief from the scorching temperature outside as they drove away from the facility. Marisol changed awkwardly in the seat. Supatra opened an ice cooler to hand out a bottle of water.

“¿Agua?” (Water?)

“Sí. ¿Cualquier comida?” (Yes. Any food?)

Supatra reached back again. She pulled from a double plastic bag.

“¿Desde cuándo un lobo no tiene una merienda cerca?” (Since when does a wolf not have a snack nearby?)

Marisol accepted the bag and smiled. Marisol glimpsed a sigil on Supatra’s wrist. A stylized scorpion mon tattooed on the ventral side of her wrist.

“¿Estás listo para ir?” (You ready to go?)

Supatra caught Marisol’s eye. She knew Marisol saw the tattoo. She grinned and played it off.

As they drove away, the wind wiped the sand clean of their footprints, leaving behind a full moon, showcasing a seemingly nervous blue sky.