Raymond Chin, head cook of the central kitchen at the Delaney Hall detention center in Newark, New Jersey, run by GEO Group on behalf of ICE, came to that job in May of twenty twenty, in the middle of the pandemic, and in the decision to take it the deciding weight had been, then, above all his mother's pension, who was already ill and who from Bayonne, where he and his wife Linda and his daughter Mei lived, could be seen entering a season of expenses, and according to what the Newark hospital said, of expenses that would become the bedrock of a life.

His mother, Bao Chin, had died in twenty seventeen after five years in which Raymond had learned to make rice pudding the way she made it in Guangzhou, and it had been she who, in the last week, asked him to call the granddaughter, who was due in June, by her name, and so his daughter is called Mei after Raymond's mother, because Raymond had said yes, and because Linda, when he had proposed it to her, had accepted without discussion, knowing how things were. The daughter is now fourteen, and in the months of high school holds her phone in her hand with the same attention with which her grandmother Bao used to hold the grains of rice between her fingers before washing them.

On the Friday evening of the twenty-second of May, while Raymond was setting the table in the Bayonne kitchen — a blue linen mat, three plates, three thick glass tumblers, the roasting pan with the chicken still to be taken out of the aluminum — Mei was sitting on the living-room sofa with her phone and, without lifting her eyes, had asked him, in the Italian-English of Bayonne, dad, is it true there are worms in the plates?

Raymond had answered, setting the chicken in the middle of the table: no, there aren't. Mei had said: I saw a video. There's a woman, outside an ICE center in New Jersey, who says inside there are worms. Raymond had said: there are no worms. Mei had said: dad, where do you work? He had answered: in the kitchen. In the kitchen of a detention center in Newark, yes. And Mei had said: is it the one in New Jersey from the woman? Raymond had looked at the chicken. He had said: eat, it's getting cold.

For two days, through the weekend, Raymond had kept thinking about his daughter's question. He had thought about the question while washing the Saturday lunch dishes. He had thought about the question while shopping at the Chinese supermarket on Avenue C. He had thought about the question while standing in front of the rice aisle and reading the characters on the bags — Jasmine, Calrose, Basmati, glutinous rice — and was realizing, as he read them, that for six years, that is since he had started the job at Delaney Hall, he had never tasted a dish from the center's kitchen, because it wasn't allowed, and because GEO provides head cooks with a separate lunch, in a dedicated room, with rice purchased separately, from a supplier that isn't the one for the detainees.

On Saturday evening Raymond had cooked for Linda and Mei's dinner a rice pudding the way grandmother Bao used to make it. Mei had eaten it. Linda had eaten it. Raymond had taken two spoonfuls and then had stood up to wash the pan.

Monday the twenty-fifth of May, at five forty-seven in the morning, Raymond was in the central kitchen of Delaney Hall, in front of the first bag of rice of the shift, a fifty-pound Calrose from the standard supplier, and had done the first thing he always does, washed the rice in the large stainless steel sink, counting the rinses — four, normally sufficient to remove the starch — and then had put it in the industrial pot and lit the gas.

While the rice was cooking, Raymond had thought again about his daughter's question, and had thought that, if on Monday evening Mei asked him again, he could answer in two ways — one that had already been said on Friday, and one that required knowing — and as he was thinking it, the rice pot had hissed, and Raymond had lifted the lid, and had seen the rice cooked, and had realized that the choice — to taste the rice that he himself had washed four times, from a whole Calrose bag, sealed by the standard supplier — was not exactly an answer to Mei's question, because Mei's question was whether the detainees' dishes have worms, while the rice would never be the problem, never.

Raymond had turned off the gas, had taken the ladle, had filled a spoon and lifted it halfway in the air, and there, with the steam rising onto his wrist, he had stopped, because to bring it to his mouth would mean knowing, and knowing was the thing that for six years had been taken from him along with the head cooks' separate room and the rice bought separately. He had held the spoon still until the steam ran out. Then he had taken the pot with the cloth gloves, had opened the trash bin, had poured out all the rice, still hot, and had heard the steam rising from the bin like a breath.

He had opened a second bag. He had washed the rice, and this time had counted to five, one rinse more than he ever did, as if the extra water might change something that wasn't in the water. He had put it on to cook. He had turned it off. He had filled the spoon again, lifted it, stopped at the same point. He had poured it into the bin.

He had opened a third bag. Washed, four rinses as always, cooked. When the third rice was ready, Raymond had not lifted the spoon. He had taken the ladle, had filled the first distribution tray, had put it on the cart, had sent it out of the kitchen, down the corridor, toward the cells. He had not tasted.

Saturday morning, in Bayonne, Mei had brought him breakfast in bed. Rice pudding. Something she had never done. Raymond had sat up on the pillow. She had said: I made it the way you said grandmother Bao used to. He had eaten two spoonfuls. He had said: good. Mei had looked at him. She had said: dad, did you eat worms too? He had laughed. She had not laughed.