Elena sits in the back of the bus between a retired teacher and a college kid with a homemade sign. Outside, pre-dawn darkness slides past.
She checks her phone. No messages from David. He's home, probably at his desk with coffee and books about the Reichstag Fire Decree, crafting his carefully neutral syllabus. Teaching history while history happens.
The woman next to her is knitting, needles clicking. "I knitted at the Women's March in 2017," she says. "And 2018. And 2020. Figured it calms my hands while the rest of me wants to scream."
"Did it work?"
"Never." A grim smile. "But I have a lot of scarves."
2017—crowds so thick you couldn't move, euphoria mixed with rage, the sense that resistance would work. Eight years ago. Elena was younger then.
Now she's not sure what she believes. The organizers are saying this march will be smaller. Protest fatigue. People are tired, scared, some have given up. But the people on this bus aren't here because they think it will work. They're here because they can't not be here.
Around them the bus hums—planning, strategizing, rehearsing chants. Students from Penn checking their signs. Someone on speakerphone with a logistics coordinator. The energy is different from 2017, less jubilant, more determined. Grimmer. These aren't people who think a march will stop what's coming.
Elena's done this before. Women's March 2017—half a million in DC, millions worldwide. Family separation protests 2018, three hours in zip-ties. Supreme Court after Dobbs. Post-election 2024.
Each time she'd asked David to come. Each time he'd had a reason not to.
Her period is late. Three days, maybe four. Could be stress—the election, work. She's been stress-late before. But this morning the coffee smell made her dizzy. And her breasts are tender in that specific way.
Twenty years of marriage, they'd decided: not now, too busy, the work matters. She'd gotten the IUD to not have to think about it. Settled, off the table.
Her doctor's appointment is Thursday. Annual checkup, scheduled months ago. She can ask then. Probably nothing.
She scrolls to yesterday's texts:
David: I really wish I could be there. You know I do.
Elena: Do I?
David: That's not fair. The semester starts Wednesday. I have to finish the syllabus, and I'm still revising Week 3. If I'm going to teach this moment, I need to do it right.
Elena: You could do both. People bring laptops to protests now. Very 2025.
David: Elena.
Elena: David.
David: I'll have dinner ready when you get home. Please be careful.
David: I really wish I could be there. You know I do.
Elena: Do I?
David: That's not fair. The semester starts Wednesday. I have to finish the syllabus, and I'm still revising Week 3. If I'm going to teach this moment, I need to do it right.
Elena: You could do both. People bring laptops to protests now. Very 2025.
David: Elena.
Elena: David.
David: I'll have dinner ready when you get home. Please be careful.
She hadn't responded. Just packed—water bottle, protein bars, first aid kit, change of clothes for pepper spray, laminated card with National Lawyers Guild hotline, ID and credit card in her bra. She knows the drill.
The bus crosses into DC as dawn breaks. Purple to bruised gray. People converging—buses at Union Station, Metro entrances swallowing crowds, clusters walking toward the Mall with signs and banners. Not as many as 2017.
Her father called last night.
"Mija, you're going?"
"I'm going."
"Good." A pause. "David?"
"He's staying home. Work."
Longer pause. Her father understands silences better than speeches. "You want me to talk to him?"
"No, Papá. He has to decide this himself."
"People who wait to decide usually decide too late."
He didn't say what he was remembering—he never does. But Elena knows. January 1982, San Salvador. Death squads operated with impunity, killing teachers, union organizers, priests, students. Bodies in the streets each morning.
That morning, men in civilian clothes arrived in unmarked cars. Some neighbors ran. Others hesitated—maybe it was a mistake, maybe if they stayed calm nothing would happen. Her father had gone for bread. When he came back twenty minutes later, four people from his block were gone. Two found dead three days later, tortured. The other two never found.
He fled six weeks later. Guatemala, Mexico, crossed with nothing but his mother's rosary. Over 75,000 Salvadorans would be killed in the twelve-year civil war, many by death squads funded and trained by the U.S. government.
He never talks about it directly. But Elena grew up knowing: when authoritarianism comes, the people who wait don't survive to regret their caution.
The bus pulls into a staging area near RFK Stadium. Organizers with clipboards and megaphones: "Orange Line to Smithsonian! Stay together! Buddy system!"
Elena joins the flow. The Metro platform is packed—hundreds, maybe thousands. A man with a guitar starts "This Land Is Your Land." Tentative at first, then stronger. A woman near Elena cries while she sings.
They emerge at Metro Center into daylight. Tens of thousands filling the space between Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument, but there are gaps where in 2017 you couldn't see ground. Organizers saying around fifty thousand.
But something's different. 2017 felt like a festival—pink hats, clever signs. This feels like war prep. Fewer signs, more organization. People checking legal observer numbers, reviewing de-escalation protocols.
TWO MORE DAYS
YOUR PAPERS, PLEASE?
NO TO SCHEDULE F
MASS DEPORTATI CLEANSING
Someone near Elena holds a printout of draft executive order language, highlighted like a legal brief.
She works through the crowd toward Pennsylvania Avenue where Immigration Justice Coalition is gathering. Maria holds a banner: SANCTUARY CITIES, SANCTUARY NATION.
"You made it!" Maria hugs her. "How was the bus?"
"Long. Good. Smaller than I expected."
"Smaller than 2017, yeah. But look—" Maria gestures. "Forty-three people. Two months organizing. Everyone here knows the plan—legal observers, medics, jail support, bond funds ready. It's not a rally. It's infrastructure."
Elena looks around. Maria's right. 2017 was massive but diffuse. This crowd is smaller but organized, disciplined. People building networks for after Monday, not people who think marching will change Trump's mind.
"Legal team says ICE has observation units three blocks from here," Maria adds. "Documenting who shows up. Facial recognition."
Of course. Show up to protest deportations two days before a president promising mass deportations takes power, risk getting documented by the agency you're protesting.
"Tell everyone keep IDs secure. Scarves up for anyone concerned."
The rally begins. Speakers on the main stage near Lincoln Memorial. Fewer politicians than 2017, more organizers. Rachel O'Leary Carmona from Women's March opens, voice cracking:
"We are calling out the people who strip our freedoms, and we are calling in we the people. Before we do anything about democracy, we have to fight our own despair."
"We are calling out the people who strip our freedoms, and we are calling in we the people. Before we do anything about democracy, we have to fight our own despair."
Elena's heard these speeches before. Variations on themes. Children drawing pictures of cages. Fathers crying about their sons. Asylum applications she fills out knowing the judge will deny them. She knows all this. Came anyway.
The crowd chants: "NO HATE, NO FEAR, IMMIGRANTS ARE WELCOME HERE."
Elena joins in but the words feel hollow. Welcome where? The country that just elected a president promising mass deportations?
Beside her, a young woman—maybe nineteen, twenty—suddenly sits down hard on the pavement. Her sign clatters. "I can't—I'm sorry, I just—"
Elena crouches. "Hey. You okay?"
"Panic attack." The girl's breathing too fast, eyes wild. "I keep thinking about—my mom's DACA. What if they come Monday? What if—"
"Look at me." Elena takes her hands. Cold, shaking. "Breathe with me. In through your nose. That's it. Hold. Now out."
She stays with her—five minutes, ten—while Maria handles the banner. Around them the march flows on, speeches amplified, helicopters circling. The girl's breathing slows.
"Thank you," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Don't." Elena squeezes her hands. "You showed up. That matters."
Does it? She doesn't know anymore. But she says it anyway.
A wave of dizziness as she stands—heat despite January cold, the crowd swimming. She grips Maria's arm, tells herself dehydration, lack of breakfast, adrenaline. Her stomach churns.
Her phone vibrates. Her father:
Miguel: Stay safe, mija. Come to the shop tomorrow. I'll make menudo.
Miguel: Stay safe, mija. Come to the shop tomorrow. I'll make menudo.
She sends a heart emoji, doesn't mention feeling off. Not this weekend. Not with everything else.
The march flows down Pennsylvania Avenue. Elena holds her banner end. January cold, bodies warm. Helicopters overhead.
Past the Old Post Office building—Waldorf Astoria now, though some marchers still call it the Trump Hotel. Trump sold it in 2022, made a fortune, walked away before his second term. Someone chants "SHAME!" but it doesn't catch.
Hours standing. Throat raw. Around her people sit on cold ground, some crying, most exhausted. Elena's legs ache, her feet numb in winter boots. The smell of coffee from food trucks mixing with exhaust, cold pavement, thousands of bodies packed close.
An organizer from immigrant rights network takes the stage: "Monday starts a fight. Not a four-year fight. A fight for however long it takes."
Rally winds down. People disperse toward Metro. Elena's group walks together—safety in numbers. Heavy police presence all day but peaceful. No confrontations, no arrests.
Maybe good. Maybe not.
Bus doesn't leave until early evening. Elena sits on a bench near the staging area, scrolling her phone. #PeoplesMarch trending but not as high as 2017. Commentators already calling it failure, proof resistance is exhausted.
But in organizing group chats: different conversation. Attendees signed up for rapid response. Photos of newly formed affinity groups. Know Your Rights trainings next week. Jail support funds. Sanctuary networks.
Maria: We got 23 new people signed up for deportation defense training. That's 23 more than we had this morning.
Maria: We got 23 new people signed up for deportation defense training. That's 23 more than we had this morning.
Twenty-three people. Out of maybe fifteen thousand. Out of millions who didn't come.
Her phone buzzes. David:
David: Hope the bench isn't too cold. I know you always forget to bring a cushion to these things.
David: Hope the bench isn't too cold. I know you always forget to bring a cushion to these things.
Despite everything, she smiles. Twenty years. He still knows her.
Elena: Heading home soon.
Elena: Heading home soon.
She types more, deletes it. Types again:
Elena: Smaller crowd than 2017. People are saying the resistance is dying. But the people who came aren't here because they think it will work. They're here because they're building something for after Monday.
Elena: Smaller crowd than 2017. People are saying the resistance is dying. But the people who came aren't here because they think it will work. They're here because they're building something for after Monday.
Long pause. Then:
David: I'm scared too. You know that, right?
David: I'm scared too. You know that, right?
She stares at the text. Doesn't know what to say that won't start another fight.
Elena: I know.
Elena: I know.
Elena: I know.
Elena: I know.
Bus pulls into the parking lot late. Elena's body aches—legs, back, feet throbbing. The knitting woman beside her snores softly. Morning's energy gone, replaced by heavy quiet of people who gave everything and aren't sure it was enough.
She grabs her bag, steps into January night. Parking lot mostly empty. David's car under streetlight, engine running, headlights on.
He gets out. "Hey."
"Hey."
His hair is messy, same clothes from morning, glasses slightly askew. In fluorescent light he looks old.
"How was it?"
"Smaller than 2017. Tens of thousands. But more focused. More organized."
"That's what you said in your text." He reaches for her bag. She lets him take it. "Are you hungry? I made—"
"I ate on the bus."
He opens the passenger door. She gets in. Car is warm. Travel mug of tea in cup holder—her favorite, too sweet because he never remembers the honey. Still warm. Made it right before she texted.
"Thank you."
He nods, puts the car in gear.
They drive in silence. Highway empty. Elena watches lights blur. Thinks about smaller crowds, more focused energy. Her clients whose hearings are next week, after inauguration. David's office stacked with books about how democracies die.
She doesn't tell him about the dizziness, the nausea, the tenderness. Nothing to tell yet. Could be stress, hormones, irregular sleep. The doctor's appointment next week will sort it. No need to worry him over probably nothing.
"I finished the syllabus," he says finally. "Beer Hall Putsch to Kristallnacht. Twelve weeks." Glances at her. "I'm trying—"
"I know." Her voice comes out flat. "You're always trying."
Silence. His knuckles white on the wheel.
"That's not fair," he says quietly.
"Isn't it?" She turns to face him. "Dehumanizing language? Mass deportations? Loyalty purges? You're the expert, David. You wrote a book about this. When does it become the same?"
"It's not—" He stops. Jaw working. "I don't know what you want from me."
"I want you to show up."
"I teach! I have a platform, I have students who—"
"Who you'll teach about the 1930s. Starting Wednesday. Two days after he takes office." Her voice breaks. "My clients are going into hiding. Parents. Kids. And you're going to lecture about history while it happens again."
He pulls into the driveway. Turns off the engine. Doesn't move.
"I'm scared too," he says finally, not looking at her. "Every day I wake up and think about my grandmother. How people like us told themselves it couldn't happen, wouldn't get that bad. By the time they realized—" He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. "I'm trying to figure out how to use what I know without—"
"Without taking a stand?"
"Without making it worse." He turns to her. "What if I'm wrong? What if drawing the parallel makes people take it less seriously? What if—"
"What if you're right and you said nothing?"
He has no answer for that.
Elena gets out. Grabs her bag from the back. His footsteps on gravel behind her.
Inside, house exactly as he left it. Kitchen clean. Her favorite blanket on couch. Plate wrapped in foil in fridge even though she said she ate.
Trying. Always trying. Never enough.
Guest room. She closes the door, sits on the bed edge. Too-firm mattress, pillows that smell like storage. She hates this room.
Their bedroom is down the hall—their bed with the memory foam David researched for three weeks, the sheets they picked in Santa Fe, the way his side runs warmer so she gravitates toward him in sleep. Twenty years. Her body knows his better than her own. The curve of his shoulder where her head fits. His arm over her waist. How he mutters in his sleep about lectures and deadlines.
She misses him. Even angry, exhausted, heartbroken.
But if she goes to him now, they'll lie there and pretend everything's okay when it's not. She'll feel his body against hers and remember why she married him—his gentleness, his careful thought, his belief that reason can change minds—and she'll lose her anger. Forgive him for staying home today.
Her clients don't have time for maybe.
Maria: Home safe?
Elena: Yeah. You?
Maria: Yep. Emergency legal clinic Sunday afternoon. Training people on what to do if ICE comes Monday or after. You in?
Maria: Home safe?
Elena: Yeah. You?
Maria: Yep. Emergency legal clinic Sunday afternoon. Training people on what to do if ICE comes Monday or after. You in?
Elena looks at the closed door. David on the other side, probably sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, telling himself everything will look better after inauguration, worst fears won't materialize, institutions will hold.
Elena: I'm in.
Elena: I'm in.
Changes into her nighttime t-shirt, washes her face, lies down. Through the wall, David moving around—getting ready for bed, rereading his syllabus, telling himself teaching history is enough.
But it's not. Elena knows it's not. In two days, everything they feared becomes real. She'll have to choose soon. Between marriage and conscience. Between loving David and fighting the fight he won't join.
She closes her eyes. All she sees are her clients' faces—the ones who will be targets Monday. All she hears is her father: People who wait to decide usually decide too late.
In two days, the waiting ends.
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