MORNING. Justin Nguyen rushed back to the tent, eager to show his family the score he’d made. He’d spent the last several weeks volunteering to clean up at Swansea Bakery. He’d helped shut the place down and had swept and mopped, backbreaking work, never asking for anything in return. This was his father’s code and to violate it would be to dishonor the memory of the great man. So Justin had suffered on, hoping for some meager reward. And now he had it. He entered Kingscote Park at a run, weaving past the protestors who carried signs that said things like “Leave Our Land,” “Go Back to Vietnam,” and less savory things. They were just getting there and hadn’t yet rallied their voices into their usual hateful roar. As he passed, they shouted halfheartedly, then returned to their cliques, drinking steaming coffee and tea, grumbling and mean. Once into the park, he was safe. Police monitored the CCTV cameras and had been making arrests of anyone who attempted to harm the temporary refugee camp put in place after the cargo ship they’d booked passage on crashed on the rocks in the Irish Sea.
