With a lunge the train was back on its way and the yellers settled down, crying and whimpering that they couldn’t stand it anymore and hoped death would come quickly.
“Mamá, are we going to die?” asked Eva.
Jaime expected her to say, “Of course not.” Instead the mamá took a deep breath.
“That’s up to God to decide. He chooses who joins Him. But whatever happens, you’re going to be in good hands, either mine or God’s.” She began singing some hymns. Others joined her in jagged breaths—no one seemed to have enough oxygen to carry a proper melody.
Jaime reached for Ángela’s hand, though both his and hers were hot and sticky. He wanted to ask her the same question the little girl had asked but didn’t want to hear the answer. The heat was so intense, like being in a car left in the hot sun and not being able to open a window. His brain was growing fuzzy and pounding with a headache. The dark shapes shifted side to side like they were on a boat instead of a train.
“I feel sick,” he muttered to himself, but his cousin heard.
“Drink, eat.” Ángela handed him the water bottle and the last mango. “You’re dehydrated.”
He did as he was told, finishing the water and biting into the skin of the mango to suck some of the juice. The world began to make sense again. It was still stifling hot, but at least now he didn’t seem so loopy and out of it. He handed the remaining mango half to his cousin.
“No, you eat it,” she said.
Jaime shook his head before realizing she couldn’t see him. “No, we both need it.”
She took it and finished it off but left the stone with the little juice that remained for Eva and Ivan. The hymns had stopped, the effort too much in the hot, poorly ventilated air. Maybe he should pull out the sketchbook again and have another blind attempt at drawing. Except with the heat, the pages would get moist and be prone to tearing. Besides, he didn’t think he could focus well enough on the page without being able to see to make the drawing even remotely good. He would have to distract himself from the heat by thinking of other things.
“Are you scared to die?” he asked in a whisper. He didn’t have the strength to be angry or upset that their parents’ sacrifice to get them out of Guatemala had been for nothing.
“No.” Ángela spoke with the same tiredness. “More like disappointed. There’s a lot I’d still like to do.”
“Like what?”
“Little things. Play the role of Julieta in front of an audience. Get old. Have children. See and eat snow. What about you?”
Jaime thought about that for a while. He knew he had future plans, something about art and museums and maybe university, but in the heat couldn’t think of what they were. “I want to see and eat snow too, but I am scared to die.”
“You shouldn’t be. Miguel wasn’t. He can take care of you.”
Part of Jaime wanted to say he didn’t need anyone to take care of him, but, oh, how great it would be to see Miguel again. “I wish Miguel were here. I wish we could have left before he was killed.”
“Me too.”
But then Miguel would be in the oven train, cooking along with them, and Jaime didn’t want that. Not for his cousin who’d suffered enough anyway. He wondered how long it had taken for life to leave Miguel’s body. How much pain he was in before he couldn’t take it anymore. Jaime supposed if he had to choose between being beaten to death and being cooked alive, he’d rather go like this. At least on the train he wouldn’t have to go through so much pain. He hoped.
“If I die,” Ángela rasped, but Jaime cut her off before she could continue.
“You won’t.” If she died, they both died—he wouldn’t be able to continue without her.
Ángela hugged him. Even though the body heat made the temperature more unbearable, breaking away from her grasp was the last thing on his mind. It was several minutes before she seemed to gain enough strength, or breath, to continue.
“If I die, at least I’m with family and not alone.”
Neither said anything else, but they both thought it. Miguel had died alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There were no more disco lights dancing in the train car when Jaime opened his eyes again. It must be nighttime. He wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep or fainted from the heat. Had no way of knowing how long they’d been in this cage. The last thing he remembered was finding it hard to focus and wondering if he would ever stop sweating.
He wasn’t sweating now. In fact, he felt a bit chilly, even in the boxcar’s stuffy air. He found a shirt he hoped was his and put it on. The faint smell of Mamá’s soap embraced him.
“Jaime?” Ángela got up next to him.
“Sí, soy yo.”
“Good.” She made stretching moans and scooted back to lean against the metal side, which had cooled down to the point it no longer burned to touch it. “Hungry?”
“How much longer are we in here for?”
“No clue, but the food won’t last another day, if it hasn’t rotted already.”
They didn’t have much left. One tamale and a couple of Abuela’s tortillas, which tasted a bit off. If he could see them, he wouldn’t be surprised if they had green spots. But since he couldn’t see the spots, he pretended he couldn’t taste them. In terms of food, they had nothing else. If they got off the train, alive, how easy would it be to get? The safe-house in Lechería would probably provide them with something while they were there, but what about after?
Others in the boxcar began shuffling around, waking up from the heat-induced slumber. Plastic bags rumpled, zippers unzipped, and water bottles crackled as people dug into their limited food stores. But the noises didn’t last long. Most people, it seemed, had little food left, if any.
“Mamá, I think this man is dead,” the little girl said.
A hush swept through the train, as if someone had turned off the sound to everyone’s voices.
“Where is he?” the deep-voiced bandanna man grumbled.
“Aquí,” Eva said, her voice high and squeaky in comparison.
Everyone kept quiet as the man went to the fallen body’s side.
A slap across the face rang in the train car, and a few seconds later the bandanna man grumbled again. “I can feel a pulse, but only barely. I think he got heat stroke. Anyone have some water left?”
Jaime shook his plastic water bottle. Nothing. Next to him he heard Ángela going through the same motions; hers was empty as well. Other people shuffled through their belongings and said no, but some said nothing. Jaime knew they were saving it for themselves.
When no one volunteered any water, the unconscious man was moved and everyone kept their distance. If the intense heat hadn’t drained everyone’s energy, Jaime might have worried about a fight breaking out, or at least someone stealing any remaining water. But just breathing seemed to be all everyone could manage. Every so often the deep-voiced man went over to the body and responded each time with the same phrase, “Still with us.”
• • •
Jaime opened his eyes again when the train rocked side to side as it switched tracks and slowed down.
Just another stop in this endless journey, he told himself. He tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position—after all, there wasn’t much else to do but sleep, and it did pass the time quicker. Instead he woke up completely. It was night again, or maybe still, and he found himself staring at the flickering exterior lights on the metal walls.
The sound of metal clanking against metal woke everyone up. Cars were being removed or added to the train. Faint voices yelled indistinguishable orders. Jaime refused to get his hopes up. Were they? Could they—
They had stopped for hours, it seemed, before the metal bar screeched and clanged as it slid across the train car door. A second later the bright light almost blinded them, and the freshest, sweetest air filled the dark and suffocating boxcar as the door opened several meters wide.
“¡Sálganse!” A voice ordered them to get out.
> Everyone bumped into one another as they stood on weak legs, still blind from the sudden light.
Jaime blinked several times. With each bat of his eyes his vision cleared. Then he wished he were still blind.
The light came from a streetlamp, and it shined on an immigration officer standing outside the train. Ammunition crossed his chest like an X, and he pointed his automatic rifle into the car.
It was the first time Jaime got a look at the people who shared the car with him. Those who had ridden in the van with him from Padre Kevin’s were all there, as well as twenty others he didn’t recognize. The looks of surprise and confusion quickly changed to fear as they realized the nightmare of being captured was real. Ivan stared at the officer in awe, while Eva clung tightly to her mamá’s hand and her pink blankie scrap. At least they weren’t crying.
“I said, get out,” he repeated with a wave of his gun.
Backpacks in place and hands clasped, Jaime and Ángela slipped past the officer and out of the train car along with everyone else. The ankle he had banged in the van gave only the slightest complaint. More pressing things were on his mind. Like how badly the officers would beat them up before returning them to Guatemala. Whether he and Ángela would try to make the journey again and how many times they’d have to attempt it before reaching Tomás, or whether they would give up, return to their families, and accept the punishment the Alphas would give them for fleeing the gang.
The officer leaned into the empty train car to poke the fainted man with his gun. “What’s with him? Is he dead?”
As if it were planned, all the passengers broke into a mad run and split in every different direction. Ángela and Jaime took off through the train yard, dodging cars and going over the hitches. Shouts and gunshots rang out. Two men unloading cargo stopped to stare at them, but they neither helped nor hindered the escape. A flash of pink caught Jaime’s eye. An officer had caught Eva and Ivan’s mamá, the scrap that remained of Eva’s blankie flapped in the dim light. In the split second it took for Jaime to wonder how he could help them, the officer let them go and jogged with his gun outstretched in a completely different direction. The pink scrap disappeared into the night.
Jaime smiled for a second—So there were some merciful migra officers. The cousins jumped over tracks laden with trash and junk before running out into the dark streets. After a few turns they looked over their shoulders. No one was following them. Their ribs heaved with exhaustion as they crouched in the shadow of a stoop and caught their breath.
Once calm, they met each other’s eyes. All their adrenaline and nerves exploded and they clung to each other, crying and laughing—even though there was nothing funny about what had happened.
Ángela rested her hand against her chest. “It’s great feeling my heart pumping.”
“Like being alive,” Jaime agreed. Between the scorching train and the armed officer, it was a miracle they were.
“But let’s not do it again anytime soon.”
“If Rafa were here, he’d say that was fun,” Jaime said as he straightened up.
“Crazy,” she said with a shake of her head. “We are in Lechería, not Medias Aguas, right?”
“Lechería,” he confirmed. They were in a bourough of Mexico City, the capital, halfway through México. Halfway. He smiled and pointed in the direction they had come from. “I saw some signs at the rail yard while we were running from the officer.”
“Let’s find this safe-house and meet up with the others.”
Thanks to Ángela making them memorize the safe-houses back at Padre Kevin’s, and the maps in Jaime’s sketchbook, they found the low-roofed, cinderblock house much easier than they had found Padre Kevin’s Iglesia de Santo Domingo. Except this safe-house was closed. Boards covered the windows and garbage wedged between a wrought-iron gate and the locked front door. They tried the gate and the windows: there was no secret entrance. No notice saying where a different safe house could be found. Nothing except a lot of graffiti on the walls, most of it bad words, and all of it directed to centro americano scum.
The dryness of Jaime’s throat scratched as he swallowed hard. No point in whining about how much he had been counting on some water and food; Ángela must have felt the same. Jaime wondered if now would justify using some of the money in their jeans that Tía had said to keep for absolute emergencies. He supposed not. It didn’t matter anyway—no store was open.
They waited a bit in hopes that their friends would appear. This was where, after all their careful do-not-get-caught planning, they had agreed to meet. But they saw no one.
“I don’t think they’re coming tonight.” Jaime bit his lip, trying to remain optimistic. “Maybe they were left behind in Medias Aguas.”
Ángela’s face pinched with worry, but her tone forced optimism. “You’re right, and we shouldn’t stay here much longer. We’re too exposed.”
Jaime agreed with a kick at some garbage on the street. He wanted to wait longer, just in case their friends showed up. But whatever, or whoever, caused the safe house to close could come back. What should they do? Where should they go? The plan B they had arranged was to wait a couple days at the safe house if the others were delayed. They hadn’t thought of an alternate plan for a closed safe house.
Where were their friends now? Still in Arriaga, not having been able to get on the train? Waiting for them in Medias Aguas? In a white van driving them back to the Guatemalan border? Images of plastic men toppling off toy trains filled Jaime’s head. Except the plastic men had faces of real boys. He’d been stupid to hope he’d ever see them again.
From one street over came the roar of drunken men yelling into the night. The hairs on the back of Jaime’s neck rose. He grabbed Ángela’s hand. Neither one needed any further encouragement to get out of there, and fast.
“Should we go back to the train yard? Don’t we have another train to take us to Ciudad Juárez?” He hated the idea of going back where the armed officers were and hated even more the idea of getting locked in another sweltering train car, but anything was better than standing outside a safe-house that was no longer safe. Right?
“Maybe we should skirt around the station. Ask where we can find Santos,” Ángela said, and continued hurrying back the way they came, away from the roar of drunken men.
Jaime looked at the sky. Light pollution and cloud cover prevented him from seeing the stars. The sun hadn’t even started to come up. “It’s probably safer to do that during the day, don’t you think? To scope out the area and find the smuggler?”
The shatter of breaking glass and a few seconds later police sirens made them walk faster.
“But where are we going to spend the night?” Ángela asked.
That was the ultimate question. The neighborhood they were in was definitely poor. Tiny houses needed more than paint to make them look nice. The windows that didn’t have bars were too small to fit even a small kid. The few cars parked on the side of the streets were old. Jaime doubted anyone would let them stay in their house, or even patio. Especially after being woken up in the middle of the night. There were trees, but none of them were big enough to climb for shelter. Lechería wasn’t one of the safest places to be.
Still, there had to be someplace, somewhere, that would be safe for the night. His eyes landed on a small white car with more rust than paint parked along the side of the road. Usually it was Miguel who paid attention to cars, but this one made Jaime give it a second look. He grabbed Ángela’s elbow to stop her. “Do you think you can fit under this car?”
Ángela crouched down to peer at it. The distance between the street and the frame wasn’t much more than mid-leg. “Barely. But what if the owners start it up?”
Jaime pointed at the dirt and trash wedged between the wheels and the curb. “It hasn’t been driven in a while. A few weeks at least, probably more.”
“I guess it’ll have to do.” Ángela removed her bag from her back and pushed it under the old car. She got on her stomach and scooted
herself under. Jaime did the same behind her. His empty stomach moaned as he lay on top of it. The street underneath the car was covered in dirt and debris with a few wrappers and cigarette butts mixed in. The tangy smell of some kind of engine fluid rose from the spot under the hood. A bang on the backside of his skull reminded him he couldn’t raise his head more than a few centimeters.
One hand on his bag, and the other curled around Ángela’s, he felt strangely secure and relaxed in this dirty little car cave.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A scuffling whine caused Jaime to open his eyes. A black nose followed by a white-and-brown, one-eared head poked through the debris to sniff under the car.
“Vida!” Jaime cried as he grabbed his bag and wormed his way out. A bump and a moan came from Ángela as she banged her head, having forgotten the low clearance. The rescued dog wiggled in delight as she gave first Jaime, then Ángela, a thorough facial bath.
There they were, their friends, alive, but looking different from how they had at Padre Kevin’s. All three of them were a darker brown than they had been. Scratches, bites, and burns covered their arms, and their clothes were dirty and ripped. But on each of their faces, including the dog’s, was a smile wide enough to make it all seem worth it.
“You’re here, you made it! How did you find us?” Ángela threw herself into Xavi’s arms and cried into his shoulder. Xavi held out an arm and Jaime joined the group hug. When they let go, some of the dirt from underneath the car stuck to Xavi’s no-longer-white uniform shirt.
Not that the dirt stopped Joaquín. The younger boy jumped into Ángela’s arms and clung to her like a baby. Rafa patted Jaime on the back and ruffled his hair.
Down by their feet Vida let out a happy yip. Jaime crouched down to her level. He was no veterinarian, but the stitches sewing up her belly seemed to be working. The flesh wasn’t as red as it had been, and the skin looked like it was healing.
“Vida was the one that found you,” Xavi said, still grinning.
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