"Kenji," his voice was hoarse but clear. "No matter what happens to us… you have to keep going. You hear me? Make your dreams come true. Even if we pass away."
Kenji's throat tightened.
"But why? Why do they always take us?" he choked out. "Why do they hate us?"
His father gave him a small, weary smile. "They don't understand. And when people don't understand… they destroy." He paused. "But you—you can make them understand. That's your gift."
The soldiers yanked his father up, dragging him and his mother through the gates. The doors screeched as they closed, sealing the dust and silence behind them. Kenji stood alone, barely breathing, as the shadows swallowed the last glimpse of his parents.
He couldn't move. Around him, other children were watching too—silent, hollow-eyed kids who had lost everything just like him. Not a single adult came to comfort them. Not a single soul said it would be okay.
Kenji opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came.
And then the world faded to black.
Then it replayed.
Kenji stood frozen.
Dust rolled across the dry gravel, stirred by wind that whispered through rusted metal gates. The air was heavy with the scent of old iron and dry earth. In front of him, shadows stretched from men in uniform, their hands gripping rifles, their voices loud and cruel. Two figures—a man and a woman—were being pulled forward.
The man knelt.
Kenji's name left the man's lips, followed by quiet, hurried words. His hand, calloused and trembling, reached through the iron gate and gently touched Kenji's head. The woman didn't speak. Her eyes—dark, full of fear—met Kenji's for only a moment.
Then the soldiers yanked them both away. The doors shut with a deafening clang.
Children around Kenji stood motionless, their faces drained of color, as though the gate had swallowed more than just two lives.
Kenji opened his mouth, but no words came.
He gasped awake.
The ceiling above him was cracked, plaster peeling in patches. The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight spilling through a barred window. Sweat clung to his skin, and his heart pounded like it had just escaped something ancient and unforgiving.
He sat up.
That dream—it wasn't his. Not really.
He didn't know those gates. He didn't know the man and woman. But something about it struck too close, as if the pain had been left for him to carry.
His father had told him stories—few and far between—about a man named Kenji. His grandfather. A Japanese American who, during World War II, had been thrown into an internment camp. That memory had passed down in stories, in silence, and maybe now in dreams.
The name he had inherited from his grandfather. Another Kenji—Kenji Sr.—who had lived through the internment camps during World War II. His grandfather had watched his own parents get dragged away under the excuse of national safety. He never saw them again.
And now here he was, two generations later, still dreaming of being pulled apart by iron gates.
Kenji rubbed his face, then his eyes, and looked at the crooked line of bunks across the room. Half of them were filled with sleeping kids. Others were empty.
The door creaked.
A boy poked his head in. "Kenji. Let's go. Line up."
Kenji slid out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor. The room stank faintly of mildew and rust. He pulled on his hoodie and stepped into the hallway.
Breakfast in the orphanage was a blur of clattering trays and stomping feet. Kids herded together like cattle. Slaps echoed off the walls—not playful ones. Some boys kept to themselves, eyes flicking toward corners of the room where staff members stood watching. Others fought over scraps. Bruises bloomed on faces like forgotten paint.
Kenji moved through it all with a tight jaw.
He sat at the edge of a long table and quietly took his food. Powdered eggs. Dry toast. He chewed slowly, listening.
Two kids whispered near him.
"D'you hear about Reggie?"
"He's gone. Room's empty."
"Think they sent him off?"
"Sent? Nah. He fought back. I heard he screamed all night."
Kenji said nothing. Just listened. He always listened.
Later, after chores and roll call, Kenji made his way to the back fence. Beyond it was cracked concrete and a rusted dumpster. He climbed up and sat, balancing with ease.
Below, an old man swept the lot.
"Still breathing?" the man asked without looking up.
"Guess so."
The broom stopped.
"You've got a sharp mind," the old man said. "That's dangerous in here."
Kenji leaned forward. "Why?"
The man glanced up at him, one eye dull, the other almost glowing.
"They've been funneling drugs from Afghanistan into the neighborhoods for years. Not by mistake. The point's to break people before they stand up."
Kenji squinted. "Why would they do that?"
"Because destabilized people don't organize. They don't rise. They're easier to prey against. They don't dream."
Kenji hopped down.
The old man kept sweeping. "Watch the ones who get quiet after the meetings. They know too much."
Kenji nodded once and walked back inside.
That night, Kenji couldn't sleep.
He sat at the edge of his bunk, spinning a basketball on his finger. The leather was cracked, the color faded. It wobbled sometimes, threatening to fall, but Kenji held his hand steady. He adjusted his finger, just so, until it was perfectly balanced.
He thought about the old man's words. About Reggie and the other kids who got quiet. The ones who simply gave up. He thought about his grandfather, and the gate, and the way voices turned cruel when people didn't understand.
His eyes drifted to the barred window. Beyond it, the moon hung, a distant, perfect sphere in the vast darkness.
He continued to spin the ball, a silent, rhythmic hum in the quiet room. His gaze sharpened, fixed somewhere far beyond the peeling plaster walls.
He didn't speak. He just spun the ball. And didn't sleep until early morning if only for a second.