The Hunted by Gloria Skurzynski

bet he’s starving now. Come on, Miguel.” Tugging his arm, she pulled him in the direction of the trailer, calling to Jack over her shoulder, “He’s on his way to Seattle to be with a teacher who used to live in Mexico. He says he wants to work in her restaurant.”
    Miguel turned to smile broadly, eyes bright, dark hair standing in stiff tufts that looked like black feathers. “I go Seattle,” he said haltingly. “Earn money.”
    â€œBut he’s too young! How can he—”
    â€œFood first,” Ashley told Jack, “then the story.”
    Every time Miguel emptied the green plastic bowl of Cheerios Ashley had given him, she poured more into it, as if it were bottomless. Miguel wolfed the food so quickly, bits of milk dribbled down his chin. Periodically he’d stop to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, then return to the cereal with an intensity Jack had never seen before.
    Ashley sat cross-legged at Miguel’s elbow, pouring milk into the bowl to keep it filled. Jack had settled in across from them, watching, thinking, wondering what to do next. How would it feel to be that hungry? Jack always felt deprived if he missed a snack before bedtime, and here was this little kid, who had traveled from another country without a dime and no food at all, who looked dirty and bug-bitten and road weary. It reminded Jack once again why his dad welcomed foster kids into their home whenever they got a call from the Jackson, Wyoming, Social Services. “Being a foster kid myself, I came through some hard times,” Steven had often told Ashley and Jack. “I want to help kids who are in the same rough place I was.”
    Miguel ate until the box rattled empty and his stomach bulged, round and hard. Finally satisfied, he settled back contentedly, his smile wide and lopsided. “Gracias,” he told them.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” Jack answered. Then, to Ashley, “Now what?”
    â€œMiguel, tell Jack what happened to you. Tell him why you are here.”
    Nodding solemnly, Miguel began his story. “I come from Nogales, near the border. Shantytown, no water, my sister carry agua from the river. My— familia —live in house of paper.”
    â€œPaper?” Jack asked.
    â€œI think he means cardboard,” Ashley explained.
    â€œWe want to work, but no work. No work, no pesos. I always dream to come to the other side.” He said all this as though he’d recited it often, maybe to get food from sympathetic listeners on his journeys.
    â€œâ€˜The other side’ means the United States,” Ashley told Jack. “Go on, Miguel, tell Jack where you’re going.”
    Miguel took a deep breath and concentrated, trying to make the words come out right: “Hace mucho tiempo —a long time ago—maybe six years— seis años —my brother have a teacher, Crecensia Álvarez. She hate to see children go hungry. She want better life for her people. So she come to U.S.A. to sell burritos, tacos, enchiladas—real food from Mexico, with spice hot like fire. Norteamericanos love her food. Now she is rich, with many restaurantes. She give always a job to people from Nogales.” Jabbing a finger into his chest, Miguel announced, “I will work for Señora Álvarez. Send money to my family.”
    â€œWork! How old are you?” Jack asked.
    â€œTen,” Miguel answered. “Old enough.”
    â€œYou want to work when you’re only ten? What about school?”
    Miguel shrugged. “No es importante.”
    â€œSure it is,” Jack exploded. “Anyway, you can’t get a job if you’re only ten.”
    Miguel laughed and held up the fingers of both hands. “I work when I was this many— ocho años. Eight. In supermercado. I carry groceries to cars. No pay; tips only.”
    Ashley looked at Miguel with admiration. “Go on, Miguel, tell Jack how you left