Traffic grew increasingly heavier as Juan barreled down the Rio Salado Parkway. As he neared Tempe Beach Park, the packed vehicles became impassible, so he pulled onto a side street and drove as far as he could until the throngs of pedestrians prevented him from moving any further. With no parking spaces available, he juked his pickup wheels roughly over a curb and parked on the gravel landscaping of the Tempe Center for the Arts at the west end of the park.
Thousands of people milled about in a mad assortment of costumes. Everywhere, he could see dyed hair, piercings, and gaudy banners protesting every conceivable cause. Evidence of their month-long occupation was everywhere: tents, tarps, trash, and crudely-constructed barriers. The latter were evidently designed to keep the authorities out.
How am I ever gonna find Sofia in this mess? Juan wondered.
He clambered out of his pickup and began walking through the Art Center parking lot. There weren't many places to park, and he kindled a wild hope that he might spot Sofia's car. If he could find it, then at least he'd have some idea where to start looking for his daughter.
There was a commotion on the park's far side, and a distant roar broke out from the crowd. It reminded Juan of an extremely busy state fair, and he sensed something big, like a concert or a speech, lay in that direction. He pushed through the crown with a desperate urgency to get closer.
His intuition was correct. Up ahead, he could see what looked like a makeshift stage. Some guy with a beard, dressed like a woman, was exhorting the crowd through a megaphone, whipping them into a frenzy. Behind that, Juan could hear the wail and squawk of sirens growing closer.
Then he saw someone he thought he recognized, "Diego?"
A young man wearing all black clothes turned to look at him, "Mr. Torres? What are you doing here?"
"I've come to find Sofia," Juan shouted above the crowd. Have you seen her?"
"Dude, it's about to hit the fan," Diego replied, fingering the zipper of his black backpack. "You need to get out of here."
"Have you seen her?" Juan Demanded. "Where's my daughter?"
The young man looked into Juan's frantic eyes for a long moment. "I think she's over there," he said, pointing towards the stage. "Yeah, that's her. See? Next to that Palestinian flag?"
Juan cursed in Spanish. "What do all these kids think they're doing?"
“I don’t blame them,” Diego said through gritted teeth. “I’m glad they’re doing it.”
“What?”
"Shutting down the whole country, Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago, New York, all of it."
"Why?" Juan grunted. He was trying to find a way through the crowd but was hemmed in too tight.
Diego was flush with adrenaline and excitement, "We're pissed that fascist Donald Trump stole our election!"