We are in the living room of our small home in East Los Angeles when an immigration agent takes me away.
That’s the dream Quetzal, my 9-year-old daughter, describes to me in a near-whipser. I ask her to use her powerful voice, the one she uses to answer teachers’ questions at school. But I can barely hear her over the sound of Tzunuum, her 5-year-old sister, practicing piano in the next room.
