They leave me. She goes to Arbo and he goes to Marcos. They both stir with the same delirium as I did.
Soon we’re all staring at each other, unsure of what comes next.
“Por qué?” the man asks.
There’s no way to answer the question I think he’s asking: Why are we here like this? I just point to the water in my hand. They nod, as if I’ve told them something that isn’t obvious.
Again, the woman looks around us with anxious eyes, like she’s expecting someone to leap out at us. After all I know about this place, I don’t blame her.
I finish my water.
He goes back to their vehicle. It’s a pickup truck with a shell on top, like it’s toting a small room on its back. He climbs into the front of the truck, slides open the small window in the back of the cabin and climbs through it, disappearing into the covered space in the bed of the truck.
The woman looks nearly panicked while he’s gone and steps back toward the truck.
He emerges with more water and hands each of us a fresh bottle. I grab it. If it were any colder, it would be ice. It hurts to drink. It’s the most wonderful pain I’ve ever felt.
We drink and he retreats to the truck.
The man and woman confer with each other. Back and forth, back and forth. I understand none of it, but I get the gist. They have no idea what to do with us. They pause. They look at us. I catch the man’s eye for a moment.
“Por favor,” I say.
They understand. They look back at each other. The debate continues, but now it’s less a discussion and more an argument.
She finally disappears behind the truck. I hear noises as she fumbles with something. She reappears several times, leaning two bikes against the side of the vehicle. She retreats once more then returns with a small cooler in hand.
She opens it in front of us, showing us what’s inside—bottles of water and a few sandwiches. She says something I don’t understand, but I’m pretty sure it’s “Sorry.”
She goes back to the truck. The man leans against the hood. He appears conflicted.
I look at Arbo. I look at Marcos. I look all around us.
Sandwiches and a few bottles of water buy us time. But time for what? To walk until we run out again? To follow this road to Ajo, if that’s even where it leads? To encounter La Frontera, la migra, las guías, or everybody else out here who doesn’t want us to make it?
No.
This is our chance.
I try to push myself to my feet, but I can’t quite get there. So I crawl. All the way to the front bumper of the truck.
If you’re going to leave us here, you might as well run us over, because we’ll die just the same.
I know they won’t understand me if I say it, so instead I do it. I lie down underneath the front wheel and look up at the man.
He turns to the woman.
Again, they go back and forth.
“Por favor. No te vamos a hacer nada. No sabes lo que nos ha pasado. ¡Por favor!” I plead, knowing that all they’ll get is the desperation in my voice.
She climbs into the passenger side and shuts the door.
He looks back down at me and holds out his hand, helping me to my feet. I shuffle to the back of the truck with him.
I peer inside. It’s a cross between a tiny kitchen and a bedroom. It has cabinets, a small stove, coolers, a slender bench lining one side, and a crawl space with a slim mattress above the front cabin of the truck.
Through the window to the front, I can see the back of the woman’s head. Her hand is pressed to her temple. She’s not happy about this.
He grabs my attention. “Está bien, okay?” He points to himself. “David,” he says. Then he points to the truck cabin. “Karen.”
“Pato,” I say. “Gracias.”
He motions that he’s going to get the others. As soon as he leaves, I remember my book. I made it this far with it. I’m not going to leave it behind.
I lean away from the truck and walk very slowly back toward the others. My legs are nowhere near steady, but it’s amazing how quickly the water has improved how I feel.
As I reach my pack, Karen rolls down the window. David goes to talk with her.
He points to my bag. “Qué?”
From her expression, it’s clear what they’re asking.
I pull the book out and dump the bag upside down, showing that it’s empty. As I do this, something nags at me…
The gun.
It isn’t in my bag. But I put it there. Which means it has to be…
As soon as I think this, Karen’s eyes drift to Marcos’s pack, which lies by his side. She nudges David.
“Qué?” he asks again, pointing to the other pack.
I stare at Marcos and he stares at me. Some arguments don’t need words. I’m hoping we both know what needs to be done.
He slides his hand toward the bag.
I want to yell at him. Don’t be stupid! Let it go! We’re getting out!
But I can’t.
He has to get it on his own.
His hand grips the top of the bag. He squints at me. We both freeze.
Then he waves it off, as though it’s empty and worthless, and he starts to crawl toward the truck.
If I never see a gun again, that’s fine by me.
Soon we’re all loading into the back of the truck. I see a map folded open on the bench. I grab it. David points to a spot on it, which I assume is where we are right now. On the page, it looks exactly like it feels in person—like it’s in the middle of nothing.
“¿Por qué están aquí?”
He seems to get what I’m asking. He grabs a book and points to the title, Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument.
I don’t know what this means, so I look at him with a confused expression.
He gestures like he’s riding a bike, then opens the book to show me softly lit photos of people posing with cheerful expressions among cacti, desert flowers, and mountainsides.
We’re fighting for our lives out here. They came to ride their bikes. I don’t know how to make sense of this.
I settle into the bench, next to Arbo. The air-conditioning from the cabin trickles in enough to keep it from being hot. It’s not cold, but just minutes ago mere shade felt blissful—this is way beyond that.
David closes the door, then secures the bikes to the back of the truck.
I stare out the window as the sunset dims and we’re whisked away from all of this. I want to feel good. I want to feel thankful for being as lucky as we are. But I’ve never felt so guilty.
“Phoenix,” David says from the front.
I look at him through the window. He points down the road and repeats it. It sounds familiar.
Marcos sits next to me, unresponsive, as if he’s barely interested in what’s going on.
Arbo shrugs.
“Okay,” I say.
I crawl up into the space above the front cabin and curl into a ball, looking for an escape from our escape. But I can’t sleep through it. The best I can do is close my eyes and weather it.
• • •
“Shit!”
My eyes open. I only know a few words of English, and this is one of them.
David says it again.
Karen responds, sounding frantic.
“Policía!” David says.
A red-and-blue flicker of lights shines through the tiny back window, faintly glowing in our trail of dust.
David yells something else, but this time I can’t understand it.
I hear the click of a buckle, and Karen crams her torso through the cabin window. Her arms flail and she screams. I’m looking down at her, while Marcos and Arbo are looking up.
The truck starts to slow.
She screams louder. As the lights get closer, we can f
inally see what she’s doing—she’s pointing up to me. Arbo gets the hint. He starts up and she shoves his tail end the rest of the way. Marcos piles in after him.
The truck stops.
She slides back into the front cabin. The window between us slams shut. Moments later, we hear a booming voice.
David answers.
“Can you understand any of it?” Arbo whispers.
“No,” I say.
“Shh!” Marcos hushes us.
The conversation directly below us continues.
Our limbs press uncomfortably into each other. There are no windows up top where we are. I have a slim view down into the space below. Beams of light pass quickly through.
They exchange a few more words, then I feel David put the truck in drive.
We move for several minutes before the window opens, the signal we’ve been waiting for to untangle ourselves and climb back down.
Karen is crying in the front.
“¿Qué pasó?” I ask.
David makes a pistol shape out of his hand and says, “Boom, boom.” Then he cups his palm around his ear.
I take this to mean that the police heard gunshots and were checking with anybody in the area. It’s only a guess, and I don’t know if these shots have anything to do with us. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another night on the edge of the border.
• • •
Karen’s sniffles continue. David calms her.
I’m half-expecting the truck to pull over and for us to be dumped back into the desert with a cooler full of sandwiches.
But the truck keeps moving.
When I’m tempted to drift off to sleep, I feel a nudge inside me. It’s the voice of Gladys telling me to pay attention. Not so much to what they’re saying, but to who they are. I’m still feeling the firm grip of so much that is vile in this world, but they are a reason to reaffirm my faith in people. A reason to hope. Two back-road drifters who stumbled upon three half-naked kids on a road in the middle of nowhere. And they dropped everything and helped. Even if reluctantly.
Thinking about them—focusing on them—makes me reflect on others like them. Sr. Ortíz. Tito. I consider the fact that there are good people everywhere. To the south, to the north, and in between.
I can’t say this makes the ride much better though. Knowing and feeling are two different things. And I mostly feel miserable and broken.
• • •
The truck stops. We’re in a parking lot. I climb down to sit next to Arbo.
The dim lights of a two-story motel shine through the windows. I peer out at it. In its simplicity, it reminds me of the motel where we stayed in Sonoyta. This, however, looks clean and well kept.
David gets out of the truck. He removes the bikes and opens the back door. After we step out, he climbs inside and rummages through a canvas bag. He pulls out three T-shirts and hands one to each of us.
I put it on. The soft, clean cotton makes me feel even filthier than I am.
Karen says something. She stretches an arm through the cabin window to give something to David. He passes it to us. It’s forty dollars. He points to the lighted motel sign, which reads $39.99.
Karen looks back at us with a soft smile.
“Gracias.” I don’t know what else to say. I wrap my grimy arms around David and give him a hug. He doesn’t see it coming, but he hugs back.
Arbo follows suit. Marcos half follows.
Then, as quickly as they entered into our lives, they vanish.
• • •
We close the door to the motel room and crumble into the beds.
“We made it,” Arbo says.
“No, we didn’t,” Marcos answers from the other bed.
I think we’ll each wrestle with the right perspective on that for a long time.
Moving On
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 goo
d 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.
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