By the time Enrique’s name reappeared in the ICE locator, it had been three weeks since the last time anyone had heard from him. Three weeks of silence. Three weeks of guessing what could have gone wrong. When his name finally came back, it wasn’t tied to Louisiana or Alexandria or any of the known transfer centers. It just said Pine Prairie Detention Center. When I called Anna to tell her this, I couldn't but joke that it sounded like a lovely luxury place, or an 80s TV show call back: "Little Ice on the Prairie?"
I didn’t know what that meant. None of us did. It sounded fictional—like a quiet suburb, not a federal holding site. I activated his communication accounts immediately, just in case, and then called the number listed online. To my surprise, someone actually answered. Her voice was soft and uncertain, the way someone sounds on their first day of work, which it turned out to be. She confirmed that Enrique had arrived earlier that morning. She didn’t know his condition but promised to check and said she’d leave him a message to log into his system. When she heard the edge in my voice, she added that Pine Prairie wasn’t like the other facilities. It was smaller, cleaner, and meant for people already approved for deportation. “It’s a good sign,” she said. “He’s just waiting to go home.”
That was Thursday night. I knew better than to expect any updates over a weekend. ICE doesn’t process emotions—or emails—on weekends. I called Anna to tell her the news, and she immediately filed the G-28 to request an urgent visit. She was calm but clearly worried. She’d never seen a case dragged out like this—three missed flights, three weeks of silence, and now a transfer to a center that few lawyers had even heard of. She kept saying, “Something’s not right.”
I told the family he’d been found. Instead of relief, they turned to complaint. His mother insisted Anna needed to go in person right away. The aunts started forwarding messages from Facebook groups about lawyers who “actually get things done.” I reminded them that Anna had more than a hundred active clients, that she lived hours away, and that she’d already sent in the paperwork. The woman I’d spoken to said Pine Prairie’s communication systems were still being installed; it would take time. Nobody wanted to hear that.
The weekend came and went without a word. Monday morning, Anna emailed ICE again and finally got a short reply: “Sometimes things happen, but he’s in Louisiana.”
We both stared at that line like it was a riddle. What did that mean? Was it a simple reassurance that delays were normal—or a warning that something had gone wrong? Did “things happen” mean a scheduling error, or a medical emergency, or a disciplinary issue? Or had we somehow made things worse by constantly pushing for answers, by writing, by calling, by refusing to stay quiet? It’s a dangerous thing, realizing that the very act of caring might draw attention in a system that doesn’t like to be seen.
That night, Anna and I spoke for hours. Neither of us knew what to do. She confessed that she’d reached the end of every professional channel she could use. ICE had gone silent. The embassy couldn’t confirm anything. The chancellery said they no longer received deportation lists “for security reasons.” It was like the system had quietly folded in on itself.
We started talking about the only option left—the one I’d been afraid to mention. Months ago, when Enrique was still trapped at Alligator Alcatraz, I’d written directly to the regional ICE field director. That email had been the miracle that got him transferred from Alligator Alcatraz to Krome. But the unspoken rule was that it was a one-time favor. I’d been told never to contact him again. Doing so now could easily backfire. We debated it for nearly an hour. If we stayed silent, we might never hear anything again. If we reached out and it went badly, Enrique could pay the price.
So we flipped a coin.
Tails meant "leave it and don't email him"
It landed on heads.
I spent the rest of the night drafting and redrafting the message. I thanked him for his past help, explained the confusion, the emotional toll on the family, and how grateful we’d be for any clarification. I tried to sound composed, not desperate, but my hands were shaking. I hit send and stared at the screen, bracing for silence.
Eight minutes later, he wrote back.
His reply was short, pointed, yet oddly human: “Sir, these things happen all the time. Logistics, operational priorities, medical clearances are all possible reasons. I understand the duress. I’ll get with my team to see if they can confirm specifics"
I sat back in disbelief. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t dismissive either. It was something in between - a bureaucrat’s version of empathy. I figured it was just a gesture, a polite way to say “Don’t push your luck.” I told Anna, and we agreed not to expect anything more. “At least he read it,” she said. “That’s more than most do.”
That same night, both me and his Mom had strange coincidences - gentle reminders that maybe we weren’t as alone as we felt. His mother received a message from an old American friend she hadn’t spoken to in over five years. He said he’d been thinking about her and, oddly enough, was fishing in Louisiana. When she explained what was happening to her son, he grew quiet, then sent her a map showing where he was. The coordinates were just a few miles from where Enrique was being held. She broke down in tears, convinced it was a sign.
Later that evening, she asked if I had any pictures of him from when he was with me - or of us. I told her we’d only taken one, the night he first arrived in Charlotte. She wanted to hear about that night, and as I described it - what I had once felt realizing his Uber was arriving on my street - the strange excitement at seeing this man for the first time in such a long time, the whole night we spent awake, talking and looking at each other with intrigue and joy. She asked if she could see the picture but I knew I didnt' have it. He had taken it on his phone.
That night I found myself reading old emails - briefly enjoying the nostalgia from early February and the day I received the email that the house was ready to be moved into. And then I saw it. There was an unread email I never noticed - from an odd email address - like Phone19420@x.com - I figured it was spam but the subject caught me: "First Night in Charlotte!" - and there it was: the photo. January 28th. Enrique and I, him grinning in the kitchen as he tried McDonalds for the first time. I never realized he had emailed me the picture that night. I froze, staring at it, like it had just resurfaced from some hidden corner of the universe. I sent it to his mother, and we both agreed it had to mean something. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe not. But after everything we’d been through, it felt like the universe finally nodding back.
The next morning, I checked my phone as usual and was taken aback when I saw I had received an email from the Director:
“He will arrive in Bogotá this week - likely Thursday, Friday at the latest.”
I reread it five times, half convinced it was a mistake. After everything that had happened—the missed flights, the silence, the chaos—it felt impossible. But there it was, black and white. Enrique was finally coming home.
While the group chat celebrated, we could all tell the difference. the excitement felt different. Muted. Exhausted. No one wanted to get their hopes up again. It flickered to life, but the tone had changed. The aunts made polite comments, then admitted they couldn’t afford another trip to the city for a month or so. Jorge said he couldn’t take more time off work. Christian was tagged by Enrique’s mother - asking if he'd be around to help again. I noticed that he was typing, and then stopped - then left the group. No one blamed him. We’d all run out of energy in different ways.
Anna got approval to visit Pine Prairie on Monday. When she called, the guard apologized—the video system had gone down. She could hear Enrique laughing softly in the background, saying, “Of course it did.” She asked if she could speak to him on the phone or pass along a message. The guard said she couldn’t but promised to tell him that we were waiting for him and that his accounts were active. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “He sounded healthy,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
By Thursday, hope had become muscle memory. We didn’t even plan as intensely this time. The Red Cross said they no longer received flight manifests, and for a moment I worried that our persistence had somehow caused that. Around 10:30 p.m., they texted to say the latest flight had landed with only forty people. “If he’s coming,” the message read, “it will be on tomorrow’s plane.”
And then Friday morning, the last email I would've ever expected arrived:
“I’ve personally assured he is on the flight today. All the best.”
From the same director - that was it. No preamble, no sign-off. Just a single line that landed like thunder.
I called Pine Prairie. They confirmed Enrique was no longer on the register. The locator now read In Transit. This was finally it. After months of horror, confusion, and waiting, he was going home.
Jorge found two friends in Bogotá who would meet him once he cleared processing. Everyone was cautious but hopeful. We’d been burned too many times to celebrate early, but this time felt real.
The flight left at seven and was due to land at 10:30. We all sat in silence, phones glowing, sending each other hopeful messages and old photos to pass the time. At 11:00, the Red Cross confirmed the plane had landed. My hands were shaking as I typed. This was over.
And then, at 1:38am, another message appeared. His mom had gotten a text from the Red Cross and she posted it without a word:
“Maam I'm so sorry to tell you this, but we've finished processing everyone and he is not here. He was not on this flight"