Low Hanging Fruit

Miguel sees Brandon’s eyes in the rearview mirror of the yellow Penske truck parked beneath the bright orange Home Depot sign.

They used to walk to school together. Share earbuds. Split hot Cheetos down the middle.

The truck doors explode open.

“Miguel?” Brandon’s voice, muffled by the mask.

Miguel doesn’t run. He just stares at his best friend holding zip ties.

“Your dad’s medication?” Miguel asks as the plastic cuts into his wrists.

Brandon’s hands are shaking. “$50,000 signing bonus.”

“My dad got deported,” Miguel whispers.

“I know.”

“I taught you to make tamales.”

“I know.”

“You came to Sofia’s quinceañera.”

“Miguel, please—”

“Don’t say my name.”

The zip ties click shut.

Low-hanging fruit.

Both of them.