The draft from the window unit air conditioner sweeps across my body. I bury myself in a cave of covers. I’ve been sweltering for so long, I can hardly believe I’m cold. I shiver in awe, the same way that I stare at the faucet that runs water endlessly at the mere twist of a wrist, or at the thick curtains that block out the fierce light of a new day. They masquerade as conveniences, but I know better.
I dreamed of Gladys throughout the night, of wild twists and turns that saved her. Now, I curl up, awake to reality and alone in my thoughts.
Arbo lies next to me. I haven’t felt him move since we turned out the light. I heard Marcos, however, spin like a tornado all night. His bed is empty now. I don’t know where he is.
• • •
I take a shower, standing under the water until long after my fingers prune, still gawking at the never-ending stream that pours over me. It’s as mocking as it is refreshing.
Marcos returns and Arbo wakes. Marcos has seen a breakfast special nearby—all-you-can-eat pancakes for $4.99. We’re starving, and we have the hundred-dollar gift from La Frontera that I plucked from the desert. It’s a quick yes.
Our waitress is Mexican. She looks at us and doesn’t even bother to speak English.
What little conversation we have stays on food. I think back to our first morning at Sr. Ortíz’s house. We’ve traveled so far, but in some ways it feels like we’ve arrived at the same place, just at a different table, full of sadness, regrets, and survivor’s guilt. And we still don’t know how to deal with any of it.
“I miss her,” I say.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marcos answers. “There’s nothing to say.”
I let it go. Maybe there really isn’t anything to say.
It’s hard to stay angry with him. I still blame him, but it’s as if I’m mad at a different Marcos—the cocky, brash guy who thought he could do anything, not the puddle of a person who sits across the tower of pancakes from me.
The waitress returns to check on us. We ask for more pancakes.
“Also,” I say to her, “do you know how far Denver is from here?”
She looks at us with empathetic eyes. She knows. Not who we are, not the details, not our story… But she gets it. She’s been there. I can tell.
“Maybe fifteen hundred kilometers? You can take a bus there. The station isn’t far from here. I’ll draw you a map,” she says, then flips a paper menu on the table and sketches out quick directions. “It’s a thirty-minute walk,” she adds, sliding the sheet toward me.
She doesn’t ask any questions about us, and we don’t ask anything about her. She hustles back to tend to her other tables.
“Why did you ask about Denver?” Arbo asks.
“The man who helped us escape the guías—Tito—that’s where he lives. He gave me his address, and he said Denver is a good place to get started.”
Arbo opens his mouth to speak, but Marcos cuts him off.
“I think we should split up.”
“Why?”
“Aside from you hating me?”
“Marcos—”
“In case you forgot, we still have a bounty on our heads and an army of gang members looking for us.”
“But if we go to Denver—”
Again, he interrupts, lowering his voice. “We’ve killed three of them now. They crossed the border and found us in the middle of a desert. Do you think they’re going to stop looking just because we go farther north? No. They want blood. And if we stay together, we’re more obvious. It’s harder to hide. If you guys want to stick together, that’s your choice. But we should split.”
“But you won’t have anybody then,” Arbo says.
“No offense, but I think that’s already happened,” he answers.
Silence.
The new pancakes arrive.
“Maybe we all go to Denver, and then we split,” I say. “At least we’d be in the same city.”
Marcos doesn’t answer. I want to take that as a good sign, but I can’t read him right now. I doubt he can even read himself.
• • •
“We don’t have to go to Denver,” I say. “It’s just an option. I really don’t know anything about it other than what Tito said.”
Arbo and I are outside on the balcony. It’s night. We’ve spent most of the day inside, sleeping off the desert and the pancakes, then refilling our bellies on canned food and watching TV to take our minds away from where they naturally wander.
Marcos has gone out. Somewhere.
“Where else are we going to go? Canada? I think we’ve crossed enough borders for right now,” Arbo says.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. We should still get in touch with Sr. Ortíz’s kids though. Maybe we could go there eventually.”
“Maybe so.”
Both of our thoughts drift to the same place. Arbo voices it.
“I miss her too,” he says.
“Thanks. I know you do.”
I leave it there. I’m the one who doesn’t want to talk about it now. I can’t wrap my thoughts around missing her. I look out into the sky and spot our stars, nearly washed out by the city lights. I like that Denver is to the north.
“Do you think Marcos will come with us?”
“I hope so,” I say. “When he gets back, I’ll try to talk him into it again. We all need family.”
• • •
The halo around the dark curtain wakes me. It’s a little after eight o’clock in the morning. I look at Marcos’s bed. It’s still empty.
As I walk to the bathroom, I stop. There’s an envelope propped up against the base of the TV, with our names written on the front.
I slump onto the bed.
“What is it?” Arbo asks.
“He’s gone.”
“What?”
“There’s a note for us by the TV. He must have dropped it off in the middle of the night.”
Arbo looks at the note, unopened.
“How do you know what it says?”
I stare back at him. We both know.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Arbo says.
“I didn’t either. I don’t think that was an accident.”
I think about what I said to him in the desert. I wish I could take it back. I don’t know if it would have changed anything, but still, I feel like I’ve failed Gladys. My heart sinks.
I reach for the envelope. Inside is a letter wrapped around three crisp hundred-dollar bills. I read the note aloud.
I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I think it’s for the best. For what it’s worth, I think your dads would be proud of both of you.
This should be enough for two bus tickets to Denver. Please use it. We all need a little help sometimes.
Your friend,
Marcos
I set it back down on the table. Arbo and I stare at it for a while.
I don’t speak. I know we’ll take the money—we need it too much not to. But I can’t be the one to grab it. I need for that decision to be his.
• • •
The money sits there.
We shower.
We gather the few things we have.
We avoid each other’s eyes.
We open the door to leave. We both stare at the table.
At last, Arbo grabs it.
We walk to the bus station.
• • •
I flip through a rack of postcards. We have a brief wait before our bus leaves, and I want to make sure we send this from Phoenix. I find one with a golden bird rising out of the desert toward the sky. I fill in Sr. Ortíz’s address and write three words.
We made it.
It’s a half truth, but it’s the half I want him to have.
• • •
I scan around me while we wait, hoping to see Marcos. In my heart, I know he won’t come, but still, I hope. I wonder where he’ll go. I wonder what he’ll do. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.
I wish the best for him. Really, I do.
• • •
The bus pulls onto the highway, and we settle in for a twenty-two hour ride. I pull out Huck, ready to get lost again in his adventures and forget about mine for a while.
Thumbing through the pages to find my place, I stumble across an image. In the blank space below a chapter’s end, there is a sketched drawing of a superhero-like figure. He’s wearing a wrestling mask with a peace sign and has a stethoscope wrapped around his neck. Below him, his name reads: El Revolucionario, the peaceful wrestling doctor.
I show Arbo.
“When did she do it?”
“I don’t know. I just found it.”
“I love it,” he says.
I stare at the picture, and with it comes a wave of memories.
“I keep thinking about a conversation we had back in the desert,” Arbo says. “You and Marcos were arguing—about her. And instead of focusing on that, she tried to help me. She started telling me about all these amazing things she remembered my dad doing. One after another. He built her a rocking horse when she was a kid. And for her fifteenth birthday, even though she didn’t have a quince, he gave her a gift…an artist’s easel that he made.” He pauses. “I didn’t want to listen. But now, it’s all I can think about. It’s like I had forgotten how much he liked to build things and then give them away. She helped me remember who he really was.”
“I’m sure she loved the easel.”
“She did. My dad was a good man.”
“Yeah. He was,” I say.
“So was your dad.”
“They both were.”
Arbo looks down at the picture again.
“It’s perfect.”
If you ask me, that sums up everything about her. I break. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
“I’m here for you. Like you were for me.”
He puts his arm around me.
“I know. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“You could, but you don’t have to,” he says.
I look out the window. As we leave the city, the desert landscape zips by at speeds that feel absurd.
I promise to never take this for granted. To always remember what that walk was like, and what it cost us to get here.
I don’t know what we’ll do in Denver, or wherever we end up. Truth is, I don’t know how I’ll face tomorrow. Each breath is still hard. But I’ve been through enough to know that we have an opportunity. And we owe it to ourselves and to all the others to make the most of it.