There was a maze of pecan trees that led from La Escuela Virgen de Guadalupe to Abuelita’s compound on the far side of Buenaventura. To most people that trail appeared to be without reason. The rows did not line up. Small valleys had formed in the spaces between them. Roots  protruded from the ground seemingly at will. It was an ever-growing labyrinth of cultivated chaos. But it was my path home.

​

I walked it every day after the parents came to collect my students. I wasn’t given a set grade to teach. The school wasn’t that big. Instead, I was assigned to a cluster of children of vaguely similar age and told to make the best of what I could. So, I did. I loved my students. Especially Crisia.

​

It was wrong of me to pick favorites, and I knew that, but I saw myself in Crisia. She too was raised by her abuela. Her mother died giving birth and her father spent too much time working to raise her. She was only four when she first came to me with untamed curls falling in her  eyes. Her abuela couldn’t leave the house and had sent her on her own. She came with a note that insisted she was six years old and ready to begin her schooling. She couldn’t name any of the letters that were written. I let her stay.

​

No one ever came to retrieve Crisia at the end of the day, so I would walk her home. We would use that time to practice our English. Sentence by sentence we would trade off, telling a story until we reached her abuela’s house. Those walks were my favorite part of the day.

 

That Friday when Luis came to pick her up, I almost didn’t recognize him. I had seen him a few times before at mass but not enough to know him immediately. If he hadn’t been wearing his church clothes, I might not have known him at all. When he stood from the bench outside of the classroom, Crisia leapt into his arms. I smiled over my disappointment and began my walk alone when I heard him call from behind.

​

“Perdón. Señorita Florez, can I speak with you?”

 

“Sí, Luis. Discúlpame, did you need something?”

 

“Possibly. Do you mind if we sit?” he said and gestured back to the bench. He sat down and whispered something to Crisia. She ran off to play on the playground. I took my seat beside Luis and we watched her climb the slide.

​

“Crisia has been doing very well in school. She’s a strong reader. I’ve started having to loan her some books from home.”

​

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll make sure we get those back to you.” 

​

“No, está bien! She’s learning. Is everything okay, Luis?” 

 

Luis kept fidgeting with Crisia’s backpack. He looked down for a moment then shifted his attention toward me. His eyes looked strained, but they met mine and stayed there.

​

“I’m gone a lot. I know that. And it’s not because I want to be. I don’t. I want to be here. With her. But I also want her to have food and clothes and a house. So, I work. I work a lot. But I’m the only one in that house who can work. That’s what I did. I worked.” 

​

“Lo entiendo, Luis. No one blames you. She is taken care of.” 

​

“No, señorita, no entiendes. I worked. I worked on Peña Ranch. Juan Pablo’s boys hit us this week.”

 

I didn’t know how to respond. I had heard rumors of cartels torching ranches further up north but nothing that close to Buenaventura. I ordered my lips to console him, but no words came out. 

​

“Crisia told me that your abuela has a ranch. I was wondering if maybe she needed any more vaqueros? I made sure to look nice, just in case she could meet with me,” he said. 

​

“I am headed home now. I’ll talk to her. Why don’t you and Crisia come for dinner tonight? We’ll convince her to find something for you.” 

​

He hugged me tightly and motioned for Crisia. I watched them walk down the road a bit before turning for my trail at the back of the school. Miguel’s father was a vaquero for the Peñas. Padre Cruz’s sister was their maid. I knew these people. I cared about them. As I began trying  to figure out ways to work them into Abuelita’s staff, my feet led me home to her compound. 

​

The stucco structure stood two stories high. Eight wide steps led to an entrance that rested on four columns. Floor-length, arched windows lit the interior, while terracotta tiles cascaded down the roof to protect its inhabitants from a malicious sun. Beyond the hacienda, clay  stretched for miles, in its varying colors, until it dripped off the edge of the earth. 

 

I walked through the front door and found myself  momentarily distracted by the familiar scent of fresh empanadas. The sweet aroma led me down the center hallway, the walls of which were barely visible beneath the array of vibrant crucifixes and gleeful relatives, set free from the perils of time by their wooden borders. They each ushered me around the corner to the sitting room, adjacent to the kitchen.

 

Abuelita was serving the warm morsels to two men on the couch against the back window. They were dressed like the vaqueros that I knew on the ranch, but I had never seen them before. One of the men was very skinny. The sides of his head were shaved and the short hair that  he had on top grew longer as it made its way down to his shoulders. He grabbed four empanadas from the platter. The first went into the pocket of his shirt. He placed two of them in his lap and the last was swiftly crammed into his mouth. 

​

The larger man looked at me. He pulled his lips back as if to form a smile, but what he accomplished was more of a grimace. His mouth revealed several gaps, where his teeth had once been. His eyes narrowed at me as he raised a scarred eyebrow. A chill rose in my spine; it tyrannized my body until I was forced to tremble in its grasp. 

​

“Come, Mija! Come sit,” said Abuelita, as she took a seat on the love seat and motioned for me to join her. “Quieres una manzana o un durazno?” she asked, gesturing to the tray of baked goods in front of her. 

​

“No, thank you. Abuelita, who are our guests?” I asked, as I eased into the cushion beside her.

 

“Yes, Mija, you need to eat! And these are the men who are going to help us. Meet Javier,” she said and directed me to the skinny man, who could not be bothered to stop cramming in his next empanada. She then turned to Toothless, “And this is Ramón.” 

​

“And you must be the beautiful Gabriela we’ve heard so much about,” said Ramón, as he jutted out a hand for me to shake. I reached for it lightly, and he quickly closed his other hand around mine. His calloused palms pressed into mine firmly and held it in place. 

​

“Not just beautiful,” Abuelita interrupted, “she is very smart. She’s got her degree and is la maestra mejor at La Escuela Virgen de Guadalupe.” She took my left hand in hers, and I retrieved my right from Ramón despite his grip. Abuelita looked at me and tried to smile, but the corners of her lips betrayed her and pulled away. I stood up. 

​

“I know that empanadas can be heavy, I’ll go get everyone some milk to wash them down. Abuela, help me carry the glasses?” 

​

“Yes, of course, Mija,” she said and brushed down the front of her delantal as she stood. 

​

The kitchen and sitting room were only vaguely separated by a set of swinging saloon doors. I walked through them and held one open for her to follow behind me. Once we had both crossed the threshold, I released it. The doors thrashed back and forth madly, never quite  touching. I made my way to the other side of the kitchen and rested my arms against the island in the center. Abuelita opened the refrigerator, pulled out the glass bottle of milk, and set it on the island. 

​

“Well, aren’t you going to get the glasses?” 

​

“Not for them,” I said and shifted to lean on the counter behind me. Abuelita held a finger to her lips and I lowered my voice. “Why are they here? Are you needing more help on the ranch? Is that it? Because I was wanting to talk to you about that anyway. Did you know Juan Pablo torched Peña Ranch?” 

​

“Yes, Mija. I heard.” 

​

“Okay, well then, we can take in some of their vaqueros. Like Crisia’s padre. They’re coming over for dinner tonight anyway. We can talk about it then and you can get those guys out of here. I don’t trust them, Abuelita. We need vaqueros we can trust.”

​

Abuelita extended each arm from her sides and gripped the island in front of her. She stared down at the glass pitcher in front of her and quietly said, “They are not vaqueros, Mija.” 

​

“Then who are they?” 

​

“Son coyotes.” 

​

“Coyotes!” I had forgotten to whisper, and her eyes shot up from the milk in front of her to squint at me. “Coyotes? Abuelita! What have you done? You invited them into our home. You don’t think that they are going to be watching us now? That they won’t just run back to their people and tell them how to get in? What is to stop them from coming back and killing us in our sleep? I cannot believe you would do something like this. And for what? America? You think that we can have all of this in America? And that is if you even make it there. Tons of people—healthy people—die before they ever see the other side. All that those people want is your money and they will not hesitate to kill you for it. I know that you think you are invincible, Abuelita, but you are not.” 

​

She looked up at me and I could see that her eyes had turned to water. It poured down her face to the floor, leaving behind a small river, as she made her way over to me and took my face in her hands. 

​

“I am not invincible, Mija. I am going to die. They are going to come for this land, and I am going to fight them. But I am too old to put up a good fight. They will win and I will die.” She pulled my forehead in to meet hers and we closed our eyes as she held me there. “But you, mi  corazón, you do not have to die here.” 

​

It took me a minute to understand what those words meant. Then it all became clear. I opened my eyes and pulled away. I stumbled backwards into the counter behind me. I parted my lips to yell, to scream, to speak. But her river had grown to a gulf at my feet. I drowned in it. 

​

She pulled me into her and together we sank to the floor. I laid my head against her chest and sobbed quietly, as she ran her fingers through my hair. The rhythm of her strokes had nearly lulled me to sleep when the guests from the other room began rustling loudly. Abuelita tilted  my chin up, to meet her gaze. 

​

“Now, I need you to listen very carefully, Gabriela. Those men out there are the safest coyotes that I could find. They are the ones that have been helping people  from the church. But they are still coyotes, Mija. They are very dangerous men. I have only paid them half of their fee. The rest is with your cousins from Phoenix, who are only to pay them once you’ve arrived unharmed. Gilberto and Anjelica will be waiting to pick you up in New Mexico. You will go to live with them. Anjelica has already purchased all of the documents that you will need to apply for jobs. She says that there are many schools in need of maestros for their Spanish-speaking students. That is what she is doing now and says that she has friends who will help you to get hired. You will still be teaching. You will be with family. And you will be safe. Now come, Mija. We have left our guests waiting for too long.”

​

She stood and raised me with her. She returned the milk to the fridge and guided me back through the saloon doors. The two men were standing, but my eyes had become too heavy to reach theirs. Instead, I focused down on the empty tray that had once held the empanadas.  Abuelita apologized for our delay and told the men that we were out of milk. They did not appear to be affected by her lie.

 

They informed us that it was time to leave and started down the hallway. Abuelita curled her fingers through mine and pulled them to her chest. She used her other hand to support my elbow, as it had taken on the bulk of my weight. My feet followed the path of the men’s, back  down the long stretch of dark hallway that led to the front door. My ancestors turned away as we passed and hid within their frames. The men held in place by nails buried their faces in the crook of their necks. 

​

I was escorted out of my sanctuary and down its massive steps. On the side of the building, Javier was already in the driver’s seat of their white panel van. Ramón held the back door open for me. I climbed inside, and he went around to the passenger door. Abuelita jerked me to the edge of my seat. 

​

She closed her eyes and bowed her head. I did the same. She began to whisper but her words weren’t directed to me. I felt her thumb brush the sign of the cross onto my forehead, lips, and chest. She then held her fingertips firmly against my forehead, before moving down to my  chest, followed by my left shoulder, then my right. After a pause, there was a faint touch to the back of my neck. When she was done, she pulled my forehead into her lips and left them there. She stepped back and reached for the van’s door. I opened my eyes to find her gold crucifix hanging around my neck. 

​

“Te quiero mucho, Abuelita,” I said when I could barely see her through the crack. 

​

“Te quiero más, mi corazón,” she replied. 

​

The door shut. The engine neighed. I slid down to the middle of the bench and lay flat against it. My Abuelita raised me. That ranch was the only home that I had ever known. There was a life that I had built and lived and loved, and without warning it was all gone.

 

The back of the van had no windows. I closed my eyes to see all that I was leaving behind. Children were climbing the pecan trees along a dirt road. Vaqueros were settling their horses back into the stables. Luis and Crisia were walking to dinner. I rolled to my side and allowed  the commotion to consume me. 

​

I was awoken by a sharp pang in my stomach. I had forgotten to eat. I sat up and held my abdomen in hope that would somehow ease the pain. It did not. The rumble of the van slowed to a stop. I could hear the front doors open, then shut. The back door swung open, and I turned to see Javier there. I scooted down the bench toward the door. When I was close to the edge, Javier yanked me out by my arm. My forearms guarded my face from the packed clay below as I toppled to the ground. Javier closed the door behind me and walked toward the front of the van. I stood and brushed the knees of my jeans, then followed behind him. 

​

I was uncertain of how long the drive had been. I had walked home beneath the late afternoon sun, but once I was released the sky had darkened. I squinted through it to a light up ahead, where a yellow house sat lonely in its patch of dirt. It was a perfect square with a thatch roof and awning. There was a small window just to the left of the door that was barricaded by iron. Javier went inside. I followed. 

​

It was all one large room, but a tall counter extended halfway down the wall on the right and cut it in two. The back half was the kitchen. Ramón went there. A dirty white couch rested against the corner that the bar had created. Javier fell into it and the cushion spat out a cough of debris. He reached for the remote and turned on a small television that hung on the wall. As I stepped out of the entryway, the screen door crashed behind me. Ramón spun around. His brows furrowed. He slapped the bar in front of him and threw a hand up, in the direction  of the door. 

​

“Aye, pendeja! You wouldn’t go slamming doors in your fancy house, would you? The next time you do that here, it’s going to be with your fingers in the door jam. Comprende?” he said. I nodded and gently shut the wooden door behind me. 

​

“Where are we?” I asked, looking around the room.

​

“None of your damn business, that’s where,” said Javier. His eyes did not move from the screen.

​

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking me to my cousins?”

 

“Not tonight, tonta. We don’t have enough yet,” said Javier with a laugh.  

​

“What does that mean?” I asked. No one answered me. Ramón had turned back to whatever he was making in the kitchen. Javier had become fully entranced by the program that he was watching. I asked again, “What does that mean?” 

​

They ignored me. I walked along the wall to the outlets and freed the cord that ran down from behind the TV. A short burst of static escaped onto the screen before it closed to black. Javier let out a screech and hurled the remote at me. I jerked to the side just in time. The flying  plastic punctured the wall. Pieces of it scattered at my feet. 

​

“Ramón! Did you see what she did?” cried Javier. 

 

“I asked you a question,” I said. Ramón set down what he was doing and spun around to lean forward against the bar. 

​

“Vete a la chingada, fresa. You don’t get to make the rules anymore. We do. If we want to ignore you, we will ignore you. If we ask you a question, you will answer it. Hell, if we tell you to act like a chimp, you’d better sprout a fuckin’ tail and start eating bananas. We clear?” 

​

“Chimpanzees don’t have tails,” I said. Ramón’s eyes squinted. He gasped at the air, then pursed his lips to hold it in as it inflated his lungs. He rushed over to me.

 

“Basta! C’mon. It’s time for bed,” he said.  

​

He gripped the back of my arm above my elbow and tugged me toward him. I fought against his grasp. He clenched onto my wrist with his other hand and pulled harder, causing me to lurch forward, my face pushed into his ribs. I began pounding on his chest. He wrapped his arms around the outside of mine so tightly that they became immobilized. I thrust my weight backwards in an attempt to break his hold. There wasn’t enough room for my movement to build substantial momentum. But it caused him to waver, nonetheless, and his stance widened. I heaved back a second time and pulled my knees up between his legs. I landed on my back and exhaled hard. Ramón fell at my feet. 

​

Javier got up from the couch and ran toward us. His feet did not stop once he had reached me. Instead, one buried itself in my stomach. As he pulled it back to repeat the process, Ramón grabbed his ankle. I clutched my already aching abdomen and curled into myself. Ramón stood and grabbed my ankles. He told Javier to take my arms. Together, they hoisted me off the ground and carried me toward a small hall with two doors. They tossed me inside.  

​

The door shut quickly. I lay in darkness. I heard the doorknob agitate, and using the seam of the opening as my guide, slid my fingers up the door in search of its knob. I closed my hand around it and twisted. It did not move. 

​

“They keep it locked,” said a small voice in the blackness. It startled me. I opened my eyes wider and panned my head around the room. I still could not see.

 

“Who’s there?” I asked. 

​

“Sorry. I forget that you can’t see in here at first. I’m Z. Well, Xiomara. But I don’t like that. It makes me sound like una vieja. So, I just go by Z. And that’s Iago, over on my right, so probably your left. I don’t know if you can see him. Just be careful not to step on him. It makes him  grumpy. Don’t worry though, he’s asleep right now. He sleeps a lot. And he talks in his sleep, but not in Spanish. I don’t know what it is. He doesn’t talk much when he’s awake. He doesn’t really like it when I talk either. Anyways, what’s your name?” 

​

Her voice was high and excited. The words rolled out of her mouth and into one another as she tried to get them all out at once. 

​

“I’m Gabriela,” I said. “How long have you been here?”

 

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell in here. They only ever let us out to pee sometimes or if they want me to cook. It’s at least been a few days, though. But that’s okay. Papá told me that this would probably happen. He said that I’d have to wait here for a little bit, while those guys got all of their people together. They only take groups, so that they don’t have to make as many trips. Iago was already here, before me. And you’re here now. So, we’re probably just waiting on a couple more. Then they’ll take me to Papá.”

 

“Papá? Xiomara, how old are you?” I asked. 

​

“It’s just Z really and tengo doce años. How old are you?”

 

“Twelve? And you’re here with these men all by yourself? What were your parents thinking?” 

​

“Oh, no. Estoy bien. Papá went over a couple of months ago and has been getting everything ready for us. See, I’m the oldest of six and my baby brother isn’t even a year old. My parents didn’t want everyone to go at the same time. You know, in case it didn’t work. Then we’d all be dead. I was supposed to wait and go con mi mamá in a few months, to help with the babies and all. But mi abuelo promised some viejo cochino that I would marry him. So, Ma is sending me out early.” 

​

“Pobrecita,” I said, and no other words came. The thunder in my stomach began to clap. There was a sudden pressure on my ankle. I sat up straighter and quickly brought my knees to my chest. 

​

“Sorry! Just me,” said Z. “Here. They had me make burritos the other day and I stashed a few in my pants.” 

 

She placed my hands so that they rested atop my knees. A wrapped burrito fell into them. I held it with both hands and felt for its edge. When I peeled it away, my teeth broke its firm skin and the cold beans spilled onto my tongue. The chile sent a heat radiating through me and I could feel the sweat begin to gather in my pores. I swallowed and the storm of my body calmed. When I opened my mouth for  another bite, I moaned involuntarily. Z giggled. I finished my meal and slid to the floor. I closed my eyes.

​

When I opened them again, I still saw nothing. I knew that there were others in the room, but the darkness was empty. I wanted Abuelita to come stroke my hair or Crisia to tell me a story. There would be no one to practice English with her now. I had only ever spoken English to  the children. Those children were my students. They couldn’t have known if I was doing it wrong. I may have taught an entire class of children a fictitious language. That’s what they speak in America—English. I don’t know if I do. 

​

The door flung open and hit the wall behind it. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the glow of the living room. I squinted up at it and tried to teach my eyes to refocus. It was Javier. 

​

“Bathroom break,” he declared. 

​

With our chamber unsealed, the light rushed in. Slowly, my vision adjusted, and I could finally see my cellmates. A young man close to my age was balled up on the floor. A gray hood was cinched tightly around his short curls; a full beard consumed half of his face. All of his hair shone black except a small white strip between his lip and chin. His wide nose narrowed toward the small bridge that held his eyebrows apart. He blinked at the shadow beside me. Then grunted and rolled over. 

​

An olive hand jutted down to me. I followed it up to a girl with the round face of adolescence. She smiled at me and her round teeth seemed out of place–more mature than the rest of her. I took her hand in mine and she peeled me from the floor.  

​

Javier led us out of the room and through the front door, to the sun-soaked sand beyond the house. I followed behind Z whose brown ringlets sprang wildly in every direction. When we stopped at a small wooden structure, they settled against her lower back. Z went in first. Javier stood with his back to the door and his arms crossed. He did not look at me. We did not speak.  

​

Z exited and I entered. The inside was barely large enough to turn around in. A wooden plank with a hole in the center joined the back three walls to form a bench. An odor bore its way into my nostrils and set them ablaze. I could feel the earth revolving and it threatened to take  me with it. I threw my hands against the walls on either side of me to steady myself, but gravity proved stronger than me. I sank to my knees and threw up until my stomach was empty once again. I ran the back of my hand over my mouth and eased myself up and stepped outside. Ramón was waiting with Z. 

​

“We’re out of tortillas. You two need to go make some. I have to go pick somebody up, so Javier is going to stay behind to watch you. There won’t be anyone around to stop him if you piss him off. So, don’t,” he said and motioned us back to the house.

​

Z and I walked back toward the twig awning and through the front door. Javier lay on the couch watching TV. He whined and crooked his head to see around us, as we passed through the living room on the way to the kitchen. 

​

“Where’s your flour?” I asked, from behind him.

 

“Look, pendeja. Shh,” he said. 

​

I began opening cabinet doors and leaving them that way. I nodded to the cupboards for Z to do the same. We gathered what we needed and scattered the supplies along the counter. I passed the ingredients off to Z for measurements and readied a mixing bowl at the bar.

 

Together, we combined the flour, salt, and baking soda. I shifted my hands about the cool grains, allowing them to run between my fingers. Z cut in the shortening. I pinched it apart and worked it through the rest of the mixture until it had gathered into small lumps. Z tilted the measuring glass in her hands and poured the warm water; my hands methodically folded the ingredients into one another. 

​

Abuelita and I made tortillas together every Sunday, after mass. We would rush home to change and she would throw on her delantal. I used to love watching her hands disappear beneath the surface of the mixture as I poured. She would always put on one of her Ramón Ayala records, but rather than sing along, she would just toss her head from side to side and play her air harmonica. Thinking of her made me smile. Happiness didn’t belong here. My mouth quickly fell back into line. 

​

When the flow from Z’s spout ran dry, I looked down at the bundle that I had molded. I buried my fist into the center of it. Then rolled it on its back to do the same. I pulled at its edges until the center was at the brink of transparency, then gathered it together again. 

​

“Hey Z, go ahead and preheat the comal on the stove for me,” I said. 

​

“I didn’t see one in any of the cabinets. Should we just use a pan?” 

​

“Did you check the stove?” I asked. 

​

The hinges squeaked behind me, as the oven door opened. It snapped shut and the iron of the comal clanked against the metal burner. There was a clicking noise before I felt a faint flame at my back. I sprinkled flour onto the counter beside me and transferred the dough onto it. I began ripping off segments and crafting spheres, then pressed the rolling pin into the center of each of them and spread them flat. 

​

“Turn it up,” Javier shouted from the couch.

 

“What?” I asked. 

​

“The TV. You’re making too much noise. I can’t hear, and you broke the remote. So, go turn it up.”

 

I stared into the back of his head and shook my own. I set down the dough before me, but Z placed a hand on my wrist. 

​

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it. You’re better at this anyway,” she said. I smiled and she turned for the other side of the bar. 

​

I held my hand above the comal to ensure that it had heated up. I then lifted my soft circle onto the hot surface. A sweet smell floated to the ceiling and began consuming all that it touched. Pockets of air tried to escape beneath the weight of the dough and forced bubbles to rise on its back. I pinched the edge lightly and flipped it over. A limpiador hung over the handle of the oven. I used it to protect my hand from the heat as I pressed into the tortilla.

 

“That’s channel, not volume, pendeja!” I heard Javier shout from behind me, followed by a clapping noise.

 

I turned to see Z clutching the back of her head and Javier’s chancla at her feet. I left the kitchen and rushed over to her. I held her head in my hands and tried to inspect the scalp beneath her mounds of hair.

 

“I’m fine. No duele,” she said as she turned to face me. Her lips had formed a smile, but tears filled her eyes.

 

“It is not fine,” I said. 

​

I picked the shoe off the ground and chucked it at the couch. I was surprised when it landed on his face. He leaned over and shook his head. Red dripped from his nose to the carpet, and he lifted his eyes to meet mine. He leapt from the couch and was against me in an instant. His forearm pinned my collarbone to the wall behind me. He reared back his neck, then rocked it forward. The top of his forehead met the bridge of my nose, causing the room to spin and my eyes to water. 

​

“Quieres jugar?” he said. 

​

He reached down with his other hand and tugged at the clasp on my jeans. I tried to push him away but was still disoriented. I could see Z from the corner of my eye crying on the floor. I strung my fingers through my belt loops, in an attempt to keep them in place. His forehead  crashed into me again. My body weakened, and he jerked my pants from my grasp. 

​

Javier flew backwards, and I sank to the ground. I buried my face in my hands and folded into my knees. My pulse throbbed against my face. I hid behind the shield of my palms. When I looked up, there was a hooded man sitting on Javier’s chest. He pulled his arm back to form a fist, then planted it in Javier’s jaw. Iago stood over Javier as he lay on the floor. He must have forgotten to lock the room again after our bathroom break.

 

Iago looked down at the bloodied man and said, “No.”

 

He turned to ask if we were okay. We both nodded.

 

A gray smoke fell over the room. I got up and ran back into the kitchen, where my tortilla and limpiador flamed on the stove. I turned the burner off. There was a stack of limpiadores in an open cabinet to the left. I reached in and threw one over the handle of the comal, before lifting the flames over to the sink. I watched as the slow trail poured from the faucet to soothe the blaze.

 

Iago came over and turned off the sink. He took my hand and led me back to our room, shutting the door behind us. Z crawled over to me and laid her head on my lap. I smoothed her hair away from her face and continued running my fingers through her matted locks.

 

After some time, the door opened, and two shadows entered the room before it locked behind them. They were a couple and spoke only to each other. Later, Javier came to the door with a bandaged face and led the new comers out for a bathroom break. The three of us were no  longer permitted that privilege. We were isolated in the blackness with no glimpse of the sun to mark the passing of days. 

​

Javier returned again with three more figures, one of which handed out burritos. I scarfed mine down and heard the ruffle and grunts of the others as they did the same. When we were through, the room fell silent once again. I longed for the sound of a familiar voice. Abuelita told me stories of our cousins in America, but I never met Gilberto or Anjelica. We wrote them letters. They sent us care packages. But I never spoke to them, and I would never again speak to Abuelita. I was careful to quiet my breathing, as the tears fell from my cheeks into the  darkness. 

​

The door opened a final time. Ramón stood at its entrance. He held a rifle, unlike one I had ever seen. 

 

The guns that we kept on the ranch were intended for rattlesnakes and coyotes. The one in Ramón’s grasp looked as if it preferred much larger prey. 

​

“Vámonos, pollos,” he said. 

​

One by one, we fell into line behind our shepherd through the cover of night. The stars blinked at us as we passed beneath them, never looking long enough to shed any light. Javier waited at the back of the van. He opened the mouth of the beast and we all willingly climbed in side. It roared and jolted. No one spoke a word, in fear that some authority might be alerted to our presence. But no one was watching us. 

​

I had almost fallen back asleep when the vehicle slowed to a stop and the doors reopened. We got out to find a small hole at the base of a mountain. Javier held a large flashlight and slung a backpack behind him. He scooped the air toward him with one arm, in a gesture for us to go with him. As he neared the hole, he put the bottom of the flashlight in his mouth and sat at the dirt’s edge with his feet dangling below. He pushed off and disappeared beneath the surface. 

​

Ramón stood to the side of the gaping earth, gripping the rifle with both hands as he surveyed the land. He motioned for Z to go next. He held out a hand and eased her into the opening. Each person that he selected after her did the same. He chose me last. I sat on the ground  beside the hole and swung my legs in. Ramón used a strap attached to the rifle to fashion it against one shoulder. I dropped inside. 

​

There was a thud behind me as Ramón fell in. On my hands and knees, I pressed the pad of each finger into the cool sand beneath me. The occasional shout from ahead was my only guide. I was too far back to follow the lead of Javier’s light. The mixture of sediments clawed at my knees with every blind movement. Each grain bore into me.

 

“Rápido, pollos!” echoed down the corridor. The vibrations carried with them a map of the surfaces they had encountered on their way back. I reached out with my right hand to feel for the descent they had warned me about, but I wasn’t prepared for its depth. My weight shifted forward and my chin met the slab beneath me. The warmth of my blood made its way down my back. 

​

The sound of Ramón’s stock scraping its way along the scabrous walls grew closer. I rolled back over into a crawling position and continued on. The cell had unwittingly prepared me for the uselessness of my vision. I closed my eyes and focused only on what I could immediately  control. Right hand. Left knee. Left hand. Right knee. 

​

As I inched forward, I felt something swing into the gap under my chin. I patted at it. My fingers landed on Abuelita’s necklace. I had forgotten it was there. The monotony of my movements began to act as a metronome. In the silence, I sang to my mothers. Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Seńor es contigo. 

​

Lost in my rhythm, I almost didn’t notice the dim new light. It illuminated my path just in time to prevent me from colliding with Iago. Everyone ahead of me had stopped. They quickly inched forward and then stopped again. As we neared the light, I could see a small wooden ladder leaning against a clay wall. There was only room for one person to stand in the clearing where the tunnel spat us out and our ascent was to begin. 

​

Once I could no longer see Iago, I crept forward and toppled into the landing. I stood and gripped the sides of the ladder, before hoisting my feet onto the bottom rungs. Alternating between a reach with my arms and push with my legs, I made my way to the top. After crawling over the edge, I rolled onto my back. There I lay exhausted on the foreign soil.

​