Lydia’s worried about so many things she can’t pin one down to examine it. She’s worried about being out in the open like this, about being recognized. Whenever someone looks at her and then looks at their cell phone, there’s a little racehorse of adrenaline that clobbers through her body. She feels it mostly in her stomach and her joints. She sits close to the wall with her pack at her feet, where she imagines she’s inconspicuous. This is the one benefit of being a migrant, of having effected this disguise so completely: they are nearly invisible. No one looks at them, and in fact, people take pains not to look at them. She hopes that general indifference extends to the halcones, if Javier has them here in Nogales. She also worries about money. How expensive the coyote might be, how she’ll gain access to her mother’s bank account, and even if it works, how little money they’ll have left after they cross. She worries about the coyote, too. Her mother’s money is their last hope, and the idea of withdrawing that money and handing it over to a stranger is maddening. What questions will she ask him to ascertain the worth of his character? After he has their money, what incentive does he have to get them safely to their destination? What’s to keep him from leading them all deep into the desert and abandoning them there to die? And ultimately: What choice does she have?
Luca and Beto talk quietly nearby, swinging their feet from the planter, banging their heels against the wall beneath them. Beto scratches a twig along the top of the planter like a pencil. Luca plucks two leaves off a shrub and intertwines their stems, twisting them around in his fingers. So Lydia is worried about all these things, and yet, she has a new understanding about the futility of worry. The worst will either happen or not happen, and there’s no worry that will make a difference in either direction. Don’t think. She leans her elbows on her knees.
When he arrives, El Chacal finds the sisters without trying.
‘Dios mío,’ he says, by way of introduction, shaking his head.
Soledad can feel him assessing them, the angles of their faces, the problem of their beauty. She feels the hesitation this causes him, and she likes that hesitation is the thing it causes rather than something else. She’s relieved as she watches him push past his reluctance. He nods at them.
‘Soledad?’ he says.
‘Me,’ she responds. ‘And this is my sister, Rebeca.’ She pinches her sister’s elbow, and Rebeca nods.
He’s a small man, only slightly taller than the sisters. His face is handsome, with angular cheekbones and a clean shave. His cheeks are a shade rosier than the rest of his skin, which makes him look more cheerful than he otherwise might. He’s wiry and lean in his clean Levi’s and red Gap T-shirt. He looks like a migrant himself, except his Adidas sneakers appear brand-new. ‘Where are the others?’ he asks.
‘They’re sitting,’ Soledad says. ‘Over there.’ She walks toward them and the coyote follows.
‘Ay,’ he says, when he sees them. ‘A lady and two kids?’ He shakes his head.
The boys are already in earshot, and they both hop down from the planter.
‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ Beto says. ‘I’m twenty-three. I just have a growth disorder.’
Beto knows the words growth disorder because one of the kids he knew in el dompe had a growth disorder, and even though that kid was the same age as Beto, he stopped growing when they were both six, and Beto kept going until he was twice that boy’s height. It was one of the visiting priests from San Diego who told them about growth disorders. It didn’t matter anyway, because knowing the words didn’t make the kid start growing again. Beto grins at the coyote.
‘Twenty-three, de verdad?’ El Chacal says.
‘Plus, I have the voice of an angel,’ Beto says, and then he places one hand on his heart and breaks into song. A very loud, not entirely off-key rendition of some pop song Luca’s heard before but doesn’t know the name of. When he gets to the rap part, El Chacal holds up one hand to shush him. ‘Impressive, though, right?’ Beto says. ‘They called me the J Balvin of el dompe.’
The coyote looks unblinkingly at Beto, who does an impromptu tap dance right there in the middle of the square.
‘Okay, okay, siéntate.’ El Chacal doesn’t like to draw attention.
Beto hoists himself back onto the edge of the planter.
Lydia stands. ‘My son and I have come all the way from Guerrero. We rode La Bestia. We are capable; we won’t slow you down.’
Rebeca speaks up. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things that little dude can do. He could walk a week in the desert if he had to.’
The coyote frowns, turns to Soledad. ‘Your cousin told you I have a good track record, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know why I have a good track record?’
She shakes her head.
‘Because I don’t take kids. I don’t like leaving people behind. I don’t like people dying in the desert. So I choose people who won’t die.’
Luca holds on to his mother’s hand. ‘I have no intention of dying,’ he says.
El Chacal turns his attention to the boy. ‘No one intends to die,’ he says to Luca.
‘Yes,’ Luca concedes. ‘But I intend not to die.’ Lydia holds her breath. She can see that Luca’s making an impression. ‘There’s a difference,’ Luca says.
‘Oh?’ The coyote leans back to get a better look at Luca’s face beneath Papi’s cap.
‘Yes,’ Luca says. ‘I have considered it.’
‘You’ve considered it!’ El Chacal laughs. ‘You have considered dying?’
‘Of course,’ Luca says.
‘And?’
‘And I’m not interested in dying yet.’
The coyote nods. ‘I see.’
‘So I will stay alive.’
‘Okay.’
‘With or without your help,’ Luca says. Lydia pinches the back of his neck lightly. ‘But of course, your help would be a significant advantage.’
Now the coyote laughs harder. ‘¡Órale!’ he says, holding his hands up in front of him. ‘Okay, okay.’
Beto hops down to the ground. The kid knows when to keep quiet; he doesn’t say a word.
‘Okay,’ the coyote says again. Then he looks at Lydia. ‘You can pay?’
She tries to make her face blank, her voice loose. ‘What is the price?’
‘Five thousand for you. Six each for the kids.’
‘Dollars?’ Lydia’s mouth drops open.