It’s just after 1 a.m. The South Shore neighborhood is swallowed by darkness, sprinkled with the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional siren in the far distance. The few streetlights cast long, wavering shadows across cracked sidewalks, and in the hush of the early morning, the quiet feels fragile.
Inside a five-story apartment building, curtains are drawn. Some families sleep; others lie awake, restless. In one modest unit, a mother stirs, half asleep, tucked under a thin blanket. A child curls beside her, breathing softly. On the walls are faded photographs, a calendar with torn corners, a child’s drawing taped over a radiator. Shoes and slippers line the entranceway, and a small table bears bills, pens, and an open notebook.
Suddenly, a thud. A voice, commanding, distant. Then another. The sound of pounding on doors. Glass rattles. A loud, mechanical whirr, like a drone overhead. The mother bolts upright, heart pounding. Her child wails in startled confusion. The door is forced open. Bright lights flood in, stark and unflinching. Figures in tactical gear fill the threshold, faces obscured by masks and helmets. Their boots hit the floor, echoing sharply.
“Get down!” one shouts. Another cracks a blast, a flashbang detonates just beyond, its concussion throwing dust and blowing curtains like startled wings. The mother throws herself over her child, trying to shield them, but agents sling open the door to the bedroom, throwing furniture aside in the rush. She is yanked to her feet, arms twisted behind her back, hands bound with thick zip-ties. The child cries, naked, having not had time to dress fully. The mother pleads, soft and urgent: “My child… my child…” but the agents do not pause.
Through the hallway, chaos, neighbors screaming, doors crashing, voices shouting in both Spanish and English. Infants cry, the walls tremble, and water leaks from a burst pipe, dripping over strewn papers and broken photo frames. One child is carried out, swaddled hastily in a thin shirt. Another stands trembling in pajamas, hands clasped around a stuffed toy. Agents handcuff adults in line, moving them toward waiting vans a U-Haul, a black transport van, lights flashing.
Outside, helicopters hover overhead, spotlights slicing through the night. Agents rappel down onto rooftops, bounding into adjacent units. The building is ringed. On the street, neighbors peek from windows, stunned, silent. Some clutch phones; others rush to their doors, trying to see if their homes will be next.
When morning creeps in, the building is ravaged: doors torn from hinges; walls pocked with holes; personal effects scattered (birth certificates, picture frames, shoes, clothing) tossed like confetti in a storm. Four U.S. citizen children have been held, until they could be placed with guardians. 
In the wreckage of that night, the walls whisper stories of fear and violation of sleep interrupted, homes invaded, and lives upended. You don’t have to imagine this; it’s real. This is the country Trump is building a place where military-style raids sweep up families and even American citizens, trampling the very rights they’re promised. They call it the “American Dream.”
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