“Like being locked up in a juvenile detention facility?” Prieto offered.
“Some, yes,” Tirso offered with a smile; the smile never faltered. He continued: “The main building also holds our administrative offices and some dormitory space. Across the courtyard is our medical building, which currently is being used to package supplies for distribution around the island—insulin, birth control, asthma inhalers, and other basic medical needs suddenly in short supply due to Maria. To the right is our commissary and dry goods storage—again, it is servicing the compound, but it’s also being put to use as a staging area to distribute rice, beans, and other foods to more remote villages rendered isolated by the storm. Our greenhouse—which you can see to the right—sustained significant damage, as did the outdoor gardens just beyond it, but we managed to salvage and preserve what we could quickly, and we’re already beginning to replant. Most significantly, just past the medical building is our water collection and purification system. We have been water and energy independent on the compound for the past five years. Our water reserves are so plentiful, they’ve enabled us to bottle and distribute our own supply of water to many of the neighboring towns—”
“That FEMA hasn’t reached,” Mercedes interjected.
“That FEMA has not tried to reach,” Tirso corrected, smile still beaming. “But the people see that we, fellow puertorrique?os, are reaching them, with water from our island, filtered by a system designed by engineers educated on our island. They see that most of our problems can be resolved with the cooperation of the people of Puerto Rico, without the help of the United States.”
“And the problems you can’t solve here?” Mercedes asked.
“Well, that’s just a matter of time,” Tirso offered.
Tirso had a polish about him that felt familiar to Prieto, but out of place for a radical militant compound. It stunk of spin rooms and lobbyists.
“And how long,” Prieto asked, “have you been here?”
“Me?” Tirso laughed. “A little less than a year. Your m—Leadership had been in touch with me for quite some time, inviting me down, but honestly, it wasn’t until after the election that I realized I could no longer use my talents to support a system that had no regard for me or anyone like me.”
“Can I ask what you were doing before?”
“Running Spanish media crisis communications for Facebook.”
A young kid ran up to them from the compound’s main building, handing Tirso a note.
“Leadership is ready to see you now, Mercedes.”
Prieto’s stomach and heart fell, and he was startled by his conflicted emotions. Mercedes locked eyes with him. He could sense her surprise as well.
“And me?” he offered, attempting to seem nonchalant.
“They’ve asked just for her, right now. But I was told you can explore. We are proud of what we’ve done here; nothing to hide, really.”
And with that, they walked away.
Prieto wandered the expansive courtyard of his mother’s compound, finding himself both impressed and disturbed at the scale of it. There were easily forty to fifty people that he could see, all busy at work, and God only knows how many he couldn’t see.
This couldn’t have all been here during the Ojeda Ríos days. The FBI would have shut it down. Burned it down. No, his mother had built this. All of this, hiding in plain sight. But from where had the money come? Who was funding all of this? He wandered into the medical building—a simple concrete structure maybe big enough to hold half a dozen sickbeds and a couple of exam rooms, but now filled with folding tables where a dozen Pa?uelos had formed assembly lines, boxing up packages of medicines for distribution. At work, in the privacy of their compound, they wore the black of the Pa?uelos, but their bandanas were down. They were mainly kids—teens, college students—boys and girls, both. Bad Bunny was blasting, and they rapped along: “Tú no metes cabra, saramambiche.” You ain’t shit, son of a bitch. They barely acknowledged his presence in the room.
Prieto gave them a head nod as he made his way towards one of the tables piled high with boxes of insulin, all marked with the same giant S logo. He pulled out a vial stamped Sanareis. Where did he know that name from? He wandered back outside, curious to check out the water filtration system. His mother was clever, tapping into the youth. The University of Puerto Rico had long produced some of the country’s best engineers, only to lose them to the mainland. Somehow, with this manic dream of hers, she’d figured out how to lure some of them up here.