Escape ain’t a server farm or a pull request. It’s a kid in El Paso with my old hands, but not my old fear, graduating to something taller than steel beams. It’s my daughter saying, “Papi, you don’t got to work that roof,” and me believing her. It’s a union hall that doesn’t ask where you were born before they hand you a helmet. I’ve poured concrete in a hundred degrees and never seen freedom sweat like that. My escape is already here—it’s their future, poured deep, no rebar cut corners. They don’t need to hack a repo. They just need the door left open.