“I think he knows,” Marcos says in a hushed voice.
Neck Tattoo lingers out of earshot while watching us gather our stuff.
“He might,” I say. “He asked a lot of questions.”
“But he could have been asking to make sure he’ll be able to get his money,” Arbo says.
“Yeah, but I don’t like the way he ended it. He let it go too easily,” Marcos says.
“What do we do about it?” Gladys asks.
“We can’t do anything about it,” I answer. “They have water. That’s the only thing that’s keeping us alive.”
“That disgusting brown crap? You’re calling that water?” Arbo asks.
“It’s still water,” I say. “And they know how to get out of here. We follow them. That’s what we do.”
“He’s right,” Marcos says. “We’ll just need to figure out how to slip away once we get there.”
“What if he doesn’t know about us and he’s really helping us?” Gladys asks.
“That’s a risk I don’t think we can take,” Marcos says. “We already gave him all the money we have. That’s enough,” Marcos says.
None of us respond. Our silence is our agreement.
We walk the short distance to their camp where we find our tree. We make a plot of shade and sit, separated from the other people by about thirty meters of sizzling sand.
They look like us—everyday people, weakened from the trip, dazed from the heat. They’re older, but not by much. Some sleep, some stare with blank eyes into the mountains. Most are men. I count only two women, and one of them has a baby. She’s trying to nurse it under her shirt. I think about the strain my body is under and can’t imagine what it must be like to be her.
I look at each one of them and wonder what drove them to make this trip. What did they have to let go of in order to come, and what, if anything, do they have waiting for them on the other side?
As I scan the group, I meet a pair of eyes. They are beneath a wide-brimmed canvas hat, folded down at the ears, buried deep in a tunnel of shade. They stare back at me and a lone finger rises to the lips beneath them, as if to say, Shh.
Then I recognize him. I don’t know whether this is good or bad. It’s the man from the motel porch. He continues to look right at me. It’s not an aggressive stare, but more like he’s trying to communicate. What I think he’s telling me is, It’s okay, but don’t act like you know me.
“What are you looking at?” Marcos asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
The man looks away.
“Well, you’re looking pretty hard at nothing.”
Marcos drinks the remaining swig of water from the jug and opens another one they’ve given us. We pass it around, ignoring the taste and taking mighty pulls as if a third one were on its way.
“We should try to get some rest,” Marcos says.
We all lie down.
I consider waiting until the others are asleep to tell Arbo about the man, but I decide against it. He has enough on his mind. Instead, I keep it to myself. After the scene at the motel, I’m sure the man knows who we are, but—even though it doesn’t make sense—I want to trust the person who warned me not to trust anyone.
• • •
I wait for Marcos to fall asleep, then I quietly lean over and kiss Gladys on the lips. Her eyes open and she smiles. She props herself up on one elbow and draws with a finger in the sand.
I think I love you.
I drop my finger next to hers and edit.
I think I love you too.
We hold hands, close eyes, and sleep.
• • •
It takes about three hours for the water to kick in. It starts with a small rumble. An uncomfortable gurgle. I shift from one side to the other, unsure of what’s happening. I try to sleep again. I feel someone get up. I open my eyes and see Arbo darting away from the tree. He bolts toward a nearby bush in an antsy gallop, clutching the back of his pants. He collapses behind the shrub, dropping mostly out of view.
My rumble returns.
I’m five minutes behind Arbo. I speed past him to another bush and drop my pants just in time. Rockets don’t launch with this much thrust. Every drop of water I drank feels like it’s passing through me. It comes in waves every few minutes. It’s not worth returning to the tree. I cram my back into the scratchy arms of the bush and try to hover under a slender strip of shade.
“I knew I shouldn’t have drunk that brown crap,” Arbo says. “Water shouldn’t taste like anything.”
I don’t know what’s grosser, the water or looking at Arbo right now.
“We didn’t have a choice,” I say.
My stomach cramps and I double over. It forces me out of the shade and into the full punch of the sun. My hands and forearms press into the scalding earth in front of me. Every part of me is miserable.
I spot a piece of foil wrapper from of a bag of chips, and I use it to clean myself. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.
“How are you doing?” I ask Arbo.
“How do you think I’m doing? I’m th-quatting in a frying pan, peeing out of the wrong hole, and my dad sold drugs.”
I turn to look around us and lower my voice.
“He didn’t sell drugs.”
“Whatever.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Good. You can believe it then. I don’t.”
“What about the guías? What do you think about them? Good guys or bad guys?”
“I don’t know.”
“They found us dying,” I say. “They threatened us, gave us bad water, and are forcing us to pay them whatever they want if they get us out.”
“Okay. Then bad guys,” he says.
“Well, we’re taking their help, aren’t we? And we even paid them.”
“They took the money without asking.”
“We told them we had it,” I say.
“It’s still different.”
“Is it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We need it. If we don’t have it, we’ll die,” he says.
“What if our dads didn’t have a choice either? What if La Frontera came to them and told them to help, or else?”
“That’s a nice story.”
“Or what if they couldn’t find other work? What if they needed the money so much, they had to take the deal?”
“You don’t know any of this. You’re making stuff up.”
“I know my dad.”
“And I thought I knew mine.”
“He’s still the same person.”
“No, he’s not. He’s dead. You know why?”
I let it go.
When I return to the tree, Marcos and Gladys are gone. I don’t look for them. I know where they are. We all drank the water. I grab a small plastic bag from our stuff and walk it over to Arbo. It’s the best I can do for him. He grumbles in appreciation.
We pass hours between the tree and the bushes. As the afternoon burns on, Neck Tattoo comes over to check on us. He tells us in an unsympathetic voice, “You’ll get used to the water.”
We don’t buy it. None of us touch it again, except to use sparse drops to clean ourselves. The sun is still near its peak, and we’re losing water fast enough without flushing our systems dry with that brown muck.
• • •
I drift in and out of sleep, though to call it sleep makes it sound more restful than it is. It’s more like I pass out from exhaustion every so often.
We all struggle, though Marcos appears worse than any of us. He looks drained—when I see him, that is. He spends most of his time in the bushes. It requires less energy than going back and forth. Gladys suggests he take one of the bags from the tree. He does and keeps it propped over him like a small tent.
I don’t talk much to Gladys. There’s not much opportunity for romance. We give each other space to make the situation as private as possible.
• • •
“Vámonos, chavos,” Flannel Shirt says, spurring us all to move with a wave of his arm.
We’re sharing our final sleeve of cookies and can of black beans, using whatever juice we can pull from a mouthful of beans to muscle the dry crumbs down. We’re trying to fuel up, knowing that we have a full night of walking ahead.
The group is packing up. It’s easy to understand where all the trash comes from now. Discarded bags and cans now pepper the area, having quickly changed from life-saving vessels to desert carcasses. I grab the cookie wrapper at my side, put it in my bag, and slide the straps around my shoulders. The one benefit of no longer having any food or water is that my pack weighs very little. Still, I’d gladly trade the weight for clean water.
I try several times to look at the man from the porch, but I can’t catch his eye. I don’t have any specific reason to, other than to try to confirm that he’s on our side.
Marcos finally returned from the bushes about an hour ago and is now sleeping at our side. Gladys gently rocks his shoulder. His eyes crack open into slivers that slowly scan around him while his head remains still.
“Come on, Marcos. We have to go,” she says.
“¿Ahora?” he asks in a croaky whisper.
“Yeah. I’ll help you get up.”
She gives him her hand and pulls. He stays down. When I grab his other hand to help, I discover how much that awful water has affected him. His hand is cool to the touch. I’ve been here before, and I know where it leads.
Watching Arbo wither away was unbearable; seeing Marcos in the same state is a remarkably close feeling, one that comes with disbelief. How could someone so steely and unshakable be reduced to a stumbling lump? It reminds me of the old men in our town. I would hear stories about things they did, colossal feats, like lifting mud-buried ox carts that had tipped on their sides. But they never looked the part. Not when I saw them. They looked old, tired, and creaky. It was hard to imagine them in a different time, in a different body.
Marcos moves like he’s eighty, or beyond. We get him to his feet, in a wide and wobbly stance. I hold on to his shirt. He takes a few deep breaths, removes my hand, and finds his balance on his own.
“Vámonos,” he says, as he lumbers toward the others.
• • •
We walk behind the main group, separated by a few paces, sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s hard to tell if this happens intentionally or if it’s because we’re slow. We haven’t had any more conversation with the leader of the guías. He walks in front of everybody. Neck Tattoo accompanies us in the rear.
People walk with jugs of clear water and jugs of brown water. They drink from the clear. It’s apparent that the brown is there as a backup, or to give to the new guys.
Neck Tattoo gives us more of the dirty water to drink. Reluctantly, I take it. All of us do, except Marcos. I’m soon feeling the gurgle below again.
We stop periodically behind bushes and then struggle to catch up with the group.
I can hear Marcos breathe in and out of his nostrils with every step. It’s an agonizing sound to hear, over and over. His limp from the cactus spine—which had almost disappeared—returns. I offer him my shoulder to lean against. He refuses. He simply puts his head down and hobbles. It’s a superhuman effort, but two hours into our march, his humanity wins.
Marcos collapses onto his knees. He tries to stand and falls again.
Arbo and Gladys look like they aren’t far behind him.
Neck Tattoo whistles. The leader comes back to visit us.
“It’s the well water,” I say. “It’s making us sick.”
Arbo is behind a bush and provides sound effects to reinforce my point.
“Can you walk?” the leader asks Marcos.
“Sí,” Marcos says. He tries again to stand and collapses.
The leader looks at each of us, then at his watch. It’s nearing sunset. His eyes roll up and off to the side, as if calculating our progress. Then he turns to the group.
“We’re going to take a break, chavos,” he says.
“How long?” someone asks.
“An hour or two.”
“What?” says a guy who is standing between the man from the porch and the woman with the baby.
“Relax. We’re okay on time.”
The guy stomps from the front of the pack back to us.
“We paid you to take us across, not every pobrecito you find out here. Give them some water, point them in the right direction, and let’s go.”
“Listen up, pollito, you’re all pobrecitos out here. You paid me to tell you what to do. I’m the reason you’ll survive this trip. I’ve made it twenty-three times. How many times have you? So here’s what I want you to do—sit, wait, and rest. We’re climbing in a few hours. You’ll need it. If I take somebody on, I take them across. You see these guys, they’re with us now. You got it? Or, we can give you some water, point you in the right direction, and see how you do.”
The man says something under his breath and walks back into the group. I try not to look at any of them.
The leader grabs the brown water out of my hands. He pops open the top and takes a big chug out of it.
“Your body gets used to it,” he says.
He reaches into his bag and hands Marcos a full jug of clear water.
“But I still hate the taste,” he says, then takes another gulp of the brown and sits down a few paces away.
We try to make it last, but between the four of us, the water goes quickly. Marcos refuses to take more than his share, but we make sure he gets it by passing it to him more often. He’s too delirious to notice.
We’re nearly done when the leader whistles to Neck Tattoo.
“Give them another. You’re on the well water with me now.”
Neck Tattoo looks at him like he’s ready to throw a punch.
“You heard me,” the leader says.
Neck Tattoo gives in and tosses me his jug as though it were a water balloon, hoping it might burst. We start guzzling it immediately, before anyone can change their mind. It’s never enough. We could each get two gallons and still be thirsty. But it’s something. You can’t run on empty. Not out here.
Neck Tattoo stares at me with contempt while I drink. He paws at his neck as though he’s trying to scratch away his art.
“Gracias,” I say to the leader.
He waves back.
“How much farther do we have?” I ask.
“You’ll make it,” he says.
• • •
The final gasps of daylight fade, painting us all like shadows. We’re nearing the end of our “break.” Arbo, Gladys, Marcos, and I sit in a circle, like we did on the first night out here. We’re separated from the rest of the group.
I feel the urge to pee for the first time in days. I walk to the other side of the riverbed. I don’t get much more than a few drops, as though my bladder has shrunken from lack of use. I’m about to turn back when soft-spoken words emerge from the darkness.
“Don’t worry about him.”
I recognize the voice and turn to face him. The silhouette of his arm gestures toward the main group. “He’s nervous because of the baby.”
“Is the baby okay?”
“Sí.”
“Good.”
“Is it true?” he asks.
“Is what true?”
“About your family?”
“Sí.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“They came back to the motel after you ran away,” he says.
“For our stuff?”
“No. For me!”
“What?”
“They saw me talking to you. They wanted to know everything I knew. They even thought I might be with you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t. I’m only telling you so that you know why I don’t want these guys to know that I know you. They put a gun in my mouth, güey.”
“Why?”
“To get the truth. Did you kill one of them?”
“Yeah. They were chasing us. They were trying to get us… And if they did, we’d die.”
“I know.”
“They told you everything?”
“No. I saw the paper they had. So after they left, I went and got it. You’ve got lots of people looking for you.”
“Have you told anybody else about us?”
“Güey, I’m just trying to cross the border. The last thing I want is attention.”
“Thank you. So… Why did you come to talk to me?”
“I’ve been waiting for a moment to explain myself. I like you. I feel bad for what happened with your family.”
“Thanks. It’s been…” I can’t find the right word.
“At least you have your friends with you.”
“Yeah. Did you meet up with your friend?”
“No. He sent a message saying that he found another way across. I’ll see him on the other side, I guess. Actually, when I first saw you, for a moment, I thought one of your friends was him.”
“Which one?”
“The sporty looking one.”
My gut sinks.
It can’t be. It must be a coincidence.
My mind races to think back through everything I saw.
“What?” the man asks.
I’m not good at acting, apparently not even in the dark.
“Um…”
“What?”
“We… We found a dead person right after we started walking.”
“A guy? And you think it was my friend?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
“Why do you think it was him?”
“He looked a lot like my friend, Marcos.”
“Oh my God. Where was he? How long had he been dead?”
“Just a few hours, I think. He had been shot. We saw him a few days ago, right after we crossed over the border.”
“How many days ago? Exactly.”
“It’s all blurred out here.” I pause. “Three days. We’ve been out here three days.”
“Describe him.”
“He looked like Marcos.”
“Do better.”
“He was maybe a little older, but not much.”
“What did he have on him?” His voice grows more concerned. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. He didn’t have a bag, a wallet, or anything on him. He had on a plaid shirt and jeans. Do you know what your friend was wearing?”
“What kind of shoes did he have on?”
“Boots. Tan ones. They laced up high.”
He falls to his knees.
“Are you okay?”
“I gave him those boots. They were mine. That’s him. That’s Victor. I know his family. I know his wife. I know his son. He’s two. And he doesn’t have a dad now.”
I take a seat next to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“¿Por qué, Victor? Why? I told him to meet me and that I’d handle everything. But he was so concerned about the money. Always trying to look for a cheaper way to go. You don’t mess around here. What did I tell you on that porch in Sonoyta? Do you remember?”
“Don’t trust anyone.”
“And how many times did I tell him that?”
I let the question hang, unanswered, like so much else.
“Why did you check for his wallet?” the man asks.
The space between us goes tense.
“Because we didn’t want to leave him there, you know, without anybody ever finding him. We wanted to know his name so we could tell somebody.”
“Victor. Victor Aguilar.”
“I really am sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“You don’t think they killed him because he looked…” I can’t finish the sentence. I didn’t even want to start it, but I had to ask. I need to know if his friend died because of us.
“Because he looked like your friend?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What difference does it make? If he had stayed with me, he’d be alive. Maybe. Who the hell knows? What’s wrong with these people? All of them. Money. That’s all they’re after. The holy dollar. And screw the people you need to step over to get it. They killed my friend. They killed your family. And they wonder why we don’t want to stay here. All those people over there,” he says and gestures in the direction of the group, “All they want to do is cross. They’re good, honest people, and they paid more money than they’ve ever seen in their lives for a chance to live somewhere they can work hard to make something of themselves, while these cabrones on the border just want to find ways to screw them. To screw us. To screw everybody.” He pauses and releases a long, frustrated breath. “I’m sorry. I’m upset, and I don’t know what to say. And none of it makes a difference anyway. Victor is still dead.”
I give him time to continue. He doesn’t. “How well do you know our guías?” I ask.
“I don’t. I went through my same coyote, but it’s my first time with these guías.”
“We’re trying to figure out if they know who we are.”
“I don’t know. I’ll listen. But I can tell you one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“You know the tattoo on that guy’s neck?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a gang tattoo.”
“Which gang?” I ask.
“Who knows? They’re all bad news. I stay away.”
“Vámonos, chavos,” the leader says to the entire group.
“We need to go,” he says.
“I know you said not to trust anyone, but I trust you.”
“I trust you too. I’ll help you where I can, but remember… These guys don’t know that I know you. It’s probably better for both of us for it to stay that way.”
“Okay. My name is Pato, by the way.”
“I know,” he says. “My friends call me Tito.”
He drifts off into the darkness.
I return to my group. I don’t say anything. I can’t risk anybody else knowing. Arbo isn’t subtle, Marcos is a wild card, and the last thing I need is for Marcos to see me telling secrets to Gladys.
We march. Again, the four of us bring up the rear, but the guías have switched places. The leader is now with us, while Neck Tattoo and Flannel Shirt are with the group ahead.
Marcos is better, though not by much. He shuffles and sways, but at least he can walk. That’s progress. Gladys and I don’t talk much. She’s focused on Marcos. I get it. Arbo keeps to himself, either too consumed with the walk or with thinking about his dad to make any conversation.
Physically, I’ve caught a second wind. But mentally, I feel pounded into the dirt. My head is spinning after my talk with Tito. The only thing I can do with these unsettling thoughts is try to get some answers.
“What happens when we get to Ajo?” I ask the leader.
“You stick with me for a little bit,” he says.
“For how long?”
“A few hours.”
“Then what?”
“Then you go.”
“Where?”
“That’s up to you. I just take you there.”
“Can we stay in Ajo?”
He chuckles. “Güey, you want to get out of there. It’s a pueblito. Just a tiny, nothing town.”
“So where do people usually go?”
“They scatter like little chickens. Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. We don’t really have a plan.”
“You don’t have family there? Who wrote you those letters?”
“They’re in Canada,” I say.
“Es bien lejos. Very far.”
“We never talked about how much we’ll owe you.”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Twenty thousand pesos?”
“We’ll talk about it.”
“Are you going to charge us more?”
“I said, ‘We’ll talk about it.’”
“It’s not fair if you do,” I say.
“Then I’ll charge you less.”
“Really?”
“Sí.”
“Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“But you’re not answering them.”
“There are four of you. You get a discount. And if I charge too much, you’ll try to get out of it. That’s bad for both of us.”
“How much time will we have to pay?”
“You’ll have enough time.”
“But we don’t know anybody. We don’t know how to get jobs. We don’t speak English.”
“Relax, güey. I tell you what. I have an idea. I may know someone who can help you. When we get to Ajo, I’ll call him. He sometimes helps me out by setting people up with jobs. I don’t do this often. We’ll call it a favor. No charge.”
“Who?”
“Just a guy I know.”
“Jobs in Ajo?”
“No, somewhere else.”
“Doing what?”
“Can you wash dishes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’ll be perfect.”
“Why did you give us the water?”
“Because you were going to die if I didn’t.”
“And you wouldn’t get paid?”
“You got it.”
“Thank you.”
I mull over everything that he’s said and done. It only adds up when I think about it one way: he knows who we are.
“Just remember, you need to stick with me the whole way.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“In case you’re considering wandering off, the desert is a dangerous place. Things happen out here, and nobody ever finds out about them. You almost died once. You wouldn’t want to do that again.”
We both know what the other one knows.
• • •
The hours peel away in a monotonous trudge. We turn from the riverbed and start to climb again. A few hours before dawn, we reach a point where the slope no longer carries us up. Then I see it. A dim glow. The lights of Ajo lie almost due north. The town looks so close, like I could practically reach out and touch it.
“We’re almost there,” I say.
“Not tonight,” the leader says.
“How far away is it?”
“Ten hours.”
“But it looks so close.”
“You don’t want to try it. We’ve got to go around more mountains first.”
With that, we turn to the east and follow the rest of the group, which has already started down the slope.
• • •
The sun bulges out of the earth like a giant stop sign. We’re back near the desert floor, but elevated enough to appreciate the same vastness and nothingness that we had on the other side of the mountains. It’s the mirror image of where we were when we started following the group—a steep climb to the west and a mind-numbing swath of drought stretched out to the east.
“A little farther,” the leader says.
The words sting. I’m depleted and ready to rest. I could happily collapse right here, in a pile of sand and rocks. And I’m doing much better than some of the others. Despite the clear water, Marcos is still visiting the bushes often. He’s thrown up a few times as well. He looks the part.
But for now, we defy the daylight and continue our slog forward. As I gaze into the baked gulf, wondering how much farther into it we have to walk, I see a brief pulse of light out of the corner of my eyes.
I look toward it. It flashes once more. It looks like a reflection, but I can’t tell what’s causing it. I squint and cup my palms over my brow.
Just as I recognize it, I hear the scream.
“¡La migra! Everybody down! Now!”
We all obey.
“Where?” Arbo asks.
“Out there. It’s a car,” I say.
“You saw it?”
“I think so… It looked like sun reflecting off a windshield.”
“How many?”
“I only saw one.”
“How far away?”
“I don’t know. In the distance.”
“Could they see us?”
“How would I know?” I ask.
The same conversation happens throughout the group in a low rumble.
“Everybody shut the hell up!” the leader barks in a low voice.
Again, we obey.
With faces buried in the hot sand, we can see nothing. We have no way of knowing if they’re about to spring out of the nearby bushes or if they’ve moved on.
We lie still and hope, like a hunted animal hiding from the lion…in the den of the tiger.
I don’t know how much time passes. The silence is torture. I think of what being captured means—the consequences get worse each step of the way. A beating. Then back to Mexico, to the home we don’t have. Then facing the gang. Then…the end.
The leader crawls around, peeking from behind bushes and cacti until, finally, he calls out.
“Paramos aquí. Find a spot and stay low. There is too much migra on this side of the mountains for us to walk around in the daytime.”
We crouch and move a short distance away to a large rock. It won’t cover us for the whole day, but for the next few hours, it will keep the four of us in the shade. It also saves us the effort of making any kind of low shelter right now. It’s a trade-off we’re willing to make.
Again, we’re separated from the broader group by a small gap. Neck Tattoo shuffles over to join us with a half-full jug of clear water and a peeved expression. He takes the cap off the jug and guzzles a good portion down. I catch a quick exchange of looks between him and the leader, and it’s clear—the water was intended for us.
He puts the top back on and tosses what’s left at my feet. It’s barely more than a liter now.
“You don’t get any more. Make it last,” he says. “Unless you want more of the brown,” he adds, looking at Marcos and laughing.
He sits alone several meters away. He’s there to guard us, to make sure we don’t leave, or even discuss leaving. It’s concerning, but I’m too tired to care. We’re not in any condition to wander off in the middle of the day. It’s like the water that we don’t have enough of—we’ll deal with it later.
“If we make it out of here,” Arbo says, “I’m never going to complain about being cold. Ever. No matter what.”
“Or about rain,” I say.
“Or any drink, of any kind. I don’t even care if it’s tomato juice,” Gladys says.
“Or—” Marcos starts to say.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” Neck Tattoo interrupts, pulling up his snarled lips enough to reveal his mangled teeth.
“Sure thing, güey,” Marcos says. He shifts his head onto the corner of his backpack.
I stare at him and wish I had the old Marcos back.
• • •
My eyes open. We’re still in the shade, but something is off. I feel a weight on my feet. I look down. My pulse triples.
A rattlesnake slithers across my ankles. I try not to move. My body tenses. The snake stops.
Rattle, rattle.
Normally, people don’t die from rattlesnake bites, assuming they are healthy and they can get to the hospital. But if I—or any of us—get struck out here, it’s a death sentence.
I move nothing but my eyes to see if anybody is awake. I’m turned on my side and can only see Gladys. She’s out.
Maybe if I just wait…
The snake stays put. I move my gaze down and watch its slimy little tongue zip in and out of its mouth. It’s more than a meter long.
I start counting, hoping that it’ll move along. One, two, three…
It doesn’t move.
I can’t stay like this. I’ve never been good at sitting still. All I want to do is shift. It’s painful to remain frozen, like I’m resisting the urge to itch.
What if I kick really hard?
Its head lifts up off the ground and its body recoils slightly. It looks right at me, as if daring me to move.
If I kick, it will either hurl onto Gladys or turn to bite my leg. Probably the latter. It’s faster than me. Much faster.
Rattle, rattle.
I’m at a loss. I don’t want to call anyone’s name. The noise might frighten it, as would any nearby movement. I don’t want it frightened, like me. I move my head slightly.
Rattle, rattle.
It recoils a little more. It turns away from me and looks back at my leg, licking its lips in anticipation.
I’m going to kick. I need to kick.
I close my eyes and prepare. I think about how I’ll need to kick. Up. So that it goes over Gladys. My knee is slightly bent, but I need to bend it more to get leverage. I gently scoot my body down while trying not to move my leg.
It doesn’t like this.
Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle.
This can’t last long. I decide to scoot down and kick in one—hopefully quick—move. On three. Uno, dos…
Bang!
My whole body flails and my legs snap up to my chest in a clumsy panic. Gladys, Marcos, and Arbo all scream at once, along with others in the larger group.
The leader charges toward us.
Neck Tattoo is standing over me laughing. He’s waving a gun at the snake, which is now missing its head. Its scaled body twists like an unwinding rubber band. To hit the snake’s head, the bullet must have missed my leg by next to nothing.
“What are you doing?” the leader demands.
“Rattlesnake,” says Neck Tattoo.
“You want to tell la migra exactly where we are?”
“It was on his leg, jefe. And la migra has already moved on,” he says, smiling at me.
“I don’t care where it was. Do you have any idea how much migra is on this side of the mountains? They’re still out there! Somewhere.”
“You said you wanted them alive,” he says.
The leader gives him an awkward—and angry—look.
“Of course… I want everybody here to make it alive.”
“So, look at him… Está vivo. Alive and well, for now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Until another snake comes to get you,” he says, chuckling and scratching at his scrawny neck.
“Shut up and put the gun away,” the leader says. “We need to move. You don’t make that much noise out here and stay in the same place.” He turns to us. “Pack up your stuff.”
He walks away and delivers the news to the other group. The grumbles are almost as loud as the gunshot. Neck Tattoo turns to fend off the nasty looks.
I lean over to Marcos and whisper, “Give me your knife.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.”
He pulls it out of his bag and slides it to me. I reach for the tail of the snake and make several quick slices. Then I grab the tip and slowly draw it back toward me, careful not to let it rattle. I empty the few remaining things out of my bag and roll the rattle up inside. I put all of it into Arbo’s pack.
Neck Tattoo turns back toward us. I lunge for the snake and fling it away.
“Stupid snake,” I say.
Neck Tattoo claps his hands in delight.
I grab Arbo’s pack, and we all march toward the main group.
“Why?” Marcos whispers.
“I don’t know yet,” I say.
• • •
We walk for an hour, drifting away from the mountains. The morning sun no longer feels like morning. It already feels hotter today than it has any other day, if that’s even possible. But it’s all shades of fire anyway.
Again, Neck Tattoo walks with us in the back. At this point, he’s probably better off back here. The others turn around occasionally and curse us with their eyes, reminding us that we’re the reason they’re walking right now—all of us. Even the baby cries, as if yelling at us.
“My wife needs to feed the baby. How much farther?” the father asks.
“Fifteen minutes,” the leader says.
“Can we stop sooner?”
“No.”
“You only stop for them? Is that how this works?”
“Relax, amigo.”
“They don’t have a hungry baby.”
Nobody is relaxed.
Neck Tattoo turns to me several times during the trek, scratching at his neck and smiling. It’s creepy. And his scratching isn’t really scratching. It’s more like he’s playing with his…
Tattoo.
He’s not scratching. He’s pointing.
I think back to what Tito said. It’s a gang sign. As I stare at it, I know which one it is. I even get what it means, I think. There are three parallel bars—two thicker ones separated by a thinner bar that runs down the middle. It’s a border. The Border…La Frontera.
Despite the heat, a chill runs down my spine. I know this doesn’t really change anything, but his presence feels more threatening now.
I need to tell the others. We have to get away. But how?
I don’t have answers, and I don’t even have space to discuss it. I feel like I haven’t talked with my friends for days. We’re under the microscope, our every word eavesdropped upon. It keeps us quiet. It keeps us apart. We walk side by side, yet I feel more disconnected from them now than I have at any other point in our trip.
There’s only one answer. I need to wait until we rest and Neck Tattoo goes to sleep. This means I have to do two things that I don’t want to. First, wait. Second, stay awake. I’m panicked, but I’m exhausted.
• • •
He lies down facing us. His guard has become less subtle at every stop. Whereas before, we at least acted like neither of us knew the truth about each other, now it seems like that knowledge is an unspoken given. Neck Tattoo is here to make sure we don’t leave.
His eyelids droop, then the moment I think he’s gone, he looks at me again and fondles his neck. Gladys, Marcos, and Arbo have long since passed out. He’s staying awake because I’m staying awake. It’s now a contest. I need to let him win.
I close my eyes and do the only thing I can think of to keep myself from crashing into a deep sleep. I relive that awful night. I play it back in my head in miserable detail. I imagine horrible thoughts like what my parents’ final words were, or if they were holding hands when they went down. I try to count the bodies scattered across the yard. I hear the shots fire. I listen, helplessly, to the screams again. I’m angered. I’m saddened. I miss my parents so much. But I’m awake.
I open my eyes a short while later and Neck Tattoo is out.
Quietly, I reach for my book. I look at Arbo and consider waking someone else. But I don’t. He needs to be rallied, and I need my friend back.
I tap his arm and hold an open page of the book to his face. I’ve written in the margin.
That's a La Frontera gang sign on his neck. He knows. We need to do something.
He grabs the pencil and writes back.
How do you know?
He keeps pointing at it and looking at me.
That’s not really proof.
It's three bars. The one in the middle separates the other two, like a border.
Huh?
Never mind! He knows! They know! We need to do something!
I don’t remember my dad having a tattoo like that.
Stop it.
Stop what?
This. It ends now. We need you back. Believe me, I get it. I'm the one person who really gets it. But we have to get out of here. If not for your dad, then do it for your mom. Or Carmen. Or anybody else who's not lucky enough to still be around. Okay?
He holds on to the pencil for a while. I give him time.
Okay. What do we need to do?
I don't know. That's why I'm writing.
I think we wait until we get to Ajo.
And then what?
Sneak away. What are our other options? Do you really want to run off into the desert?
Maybe.
And then what? Where do we go?
We can follow the lights to Ajo ourselves.
Where they’ll be waiting for us. They’ll get there before we do. And if that’s really the only town out here, they’ll know that’s where we’re going.
Good point.
If we wait, at least nobody there knows we’re coming. We all get there at the same time.
It makes sense, but I don’t like it. I wish there were a better option. But I can’t think of one.
I'm going to tell M & G so they know. Or maybe they'll have another idea.
Arbo nods.
I turn and gently nudge both of them awake. I point to where they should start reading.
Read conversation on the next few pages between Arbo and me. They know. We need a plan. Agree? Thoughts?
Marcos barely lifts his head up off the ground. He grabs the pencil. Gladys reads over his shoulder as he writes.
Just one request.
??
I want to shoot him.
I think we're better off sneaking away.
You sneak. I’ll shoot. Just the jerk with the tattoo.
Gladys gives me a concerned look. I turn to see Neck Tattoo shifting in his sleep. This could quickly get dangerous if he wakes and reads what we’re writing. I keep a watchful eye on him.
That will make it harder to get away without being noticed.
They’re going to notice anyway.
But it draws attention to us. We need to get out of Ajo fast and quietly.
How?
I don't know. I don't know Ajo.
Then I say we shoot him. One less narco. One less problem.
I stare at the page, unsure what I can write to take his mind off this path. I’m not sure I can. Fortunately, I’m not the only person who is reading this.
Gladys grabs the pencil.
Making it out alive is more important than getting revenge.
Marcos glares at the page for a few seconds, then drops his head back onto the sand, closes his eyes, and gives a surrendering thumbs-up.
Gladys grabs the book.
I’m worried about him.
Me too.
He can’t eat anything. He just throws it back up.
We'll be in Ajo soon.
He can’t die. I can’t let that happen.
Tears drop onto the page.
He's not going to. We're not that far away.
Hug me. Please.
I slide over and wrap my arms around her. She buries her wet face in my chest. Her body shakes. She’s trying to be quiet, but soft sobs escape.
I hold her until she calms.
She whispers in my ear, “It’s not pretty anymore. I can’t see it.”
I don’t understand. I stare at her, confused. She pulls away and reaches for the book again.
The desert. Around us. It’s dark. It’s death. I want out.
We'll get out.
I tried to sand-scape this morning and I couldn’t. I wanted to tear it apart. All of it. I hate it. I can’t stand feeling like this.
It will end.
Promise me.
I did. And you promised me.
We promised we’ll get out. What about Marcos? Do you think he’ll make it until Ajo?
He has to. And he knows that, so he will. He's tough. He'll find a way.
If he dies, I don’t know what I’ll do. He has to live, Pato.
I nod.
I’d trade places with him. I’d die for him. I would. He has to make it. I can’t stand seeing him like this.
I know. I felt the same way when I was watching Arbo. But he's better now, so there's hope.
She leans back in and hugs me again. She whispers softly in my ear, “I’m not paying much attention to you. I’m sorry.”
I turn my mouth to her ear and say, “Don’t worry about it. We have the rest of our lives.”
She reaches for the book and writes a final note.
:)
• • •
When I close my eyes to rest, sleep engulfs me. Dusk comes in a flash.
“Cinco minutos,” the leader announces. Five minutes until we leave.
Gladys and Arbo both shuffle to the bushes, leaving Marcos and me sitting side by side. He looks at me with an expressionless nod. I hand him the water. He concedes to a few sips.
Neck Tattoo still hovers, but at a safe enough distance that we could talk. We don’t. We watch silently as our camp begins to stir.
Shoes are laced, packs cinched, snacks eaten, as all prepare for the next step of the journey. Watching the others, I think about what Tito said and about how much I’d like to be with them in other circumstances. I wish I could hear their stories. Maybe it would make me feel better about mine.
After a few minutes, I get an uncomfortable feeling.
Something is off.
It’s that gut voice. The same voice that told me about the black car. I can’t place this feeling, but I’m not going to dismiss it this time. I focus. What is it? What’s off?
That’s when he catches my attention. Tito stares directly at me. We lock eyes and he holds my stare. Tightly. He’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t figure out what it is.
“What’s his deal?” Marcos asks through an exhausted breath.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But we need to find out.”
“Same guy who looked at you before. You know him, don’t you?” Marcos asks.
I don’t answer. I’m focused on Tito.
“Hello?” Marcos says.
Tito looks at the leader, then back at me. Then at Neck Tattoo, then back at me. Then he holds his stare.
I get it.
Where is Flannel Shirt?
I scan in all directions. He’s not in sight.
Maybe he changed clothes?
I look at everybody in the group, one by one. None are him.
“The guide in the flannel shirt is gone,” I say. Now I have Marcos’s attention. He lifts his head and scans the crowd.
“Crap.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re in trouble.”
“We won’t make it to Ajo,” he says. “We won’t even get close.”
Neck Tattoo turns toward us. We both hang on to our thoughts for a moment. I try as best I can to look exhausted, not distressed.
He turns away.
“Thoughts?” Marcos asks.
“I have an idea…” I say. I walk him through it.
“I’m with you,” he says. “But we do it my way.”
I open my mouth to push back, then stop. His jaws pulse the way they do when he’s locked on a decision.
I let it go.