‘You can’t wear the hat,’ he says. ‘You can spot that red from a mile away.’
Luca frowns at Mami, but she nods, and Luca unhappily removes Papi’s hat. He hands it to Mami, and she tries to zip it back into his pack.
‘You can wear mine.’ Lydia removes her hat and holds it out to him.
‘But it’s pink,’ he protests.
‘Hardly.’
‘I’ll take it!’ Beto says.
Lydia laughs. ‘I wish I had an extra one for you,’ she says. She plops it on Luca’s head and returns to the zipper on Luca’s pack, trying to get Papi’s hat back in. The backpack is stuffed. She pauses to pull a white T-shirt out from inside. ‘Here,’ she says, handing the shirt to Beto. ‘Use this.’
He fixes the neck of the T-shirt over his head and lets the fabric drape down his neck to shield his skin from the sun. He grins at Lydia. ‘Thanks.’
Everyone has paused here, suddenly aware of the mounting heat. They’re all peeling off layers and regrouping. Slim and Choncho are sharing water from one of their jugs. There’s a reason this landscape is devoid of people, why it’s still feasible to cross here without getting caught. It seems impossible that any creature could survive in such a place.
‘It doesn’t even look real,’ Mami says.
Beside Luca, Lorenzo removes his own cap and wipes his brow. That hat was pristine the first time Luca saw it, at the migrant shelter in Huehuetoca. Now the brim is still flat, but the sun has sapped its color from black to gray. That change is startling to Luca. He’s unaccustomed to the potency of the Sonoran sun, how quickly it corrodes whatever’s beneath its gaze. He pulls Mami’s hat off his head to examine it more closely, and he realizes that the pink really isn’t pink anymore. It’s only the bleached memory of pink, a dirty sand color. That’s what Mami meant when she said hardly. Lorenzo leans his hands on his knees and looks out across the hopeless vista.
‘Ay, no manches, cabrón,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘I guess this is what he meant by grueling.’ Beto wheezes, pulling the empty inhaler from his pocket to suck on it.
‘You okay?’ Luca asks, gesturing at the inhaler.
Beto shrugs and tries to regulate his breath, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun. ‘Why, you got some albuterol in there?’ He pokes at Luca’s backpack. ‘Because I’ll take it if you do!’
Both boys laugh, and Beto’s sounds like a dying balloon.
‘Venga, mijo,’ Mami says, prompting Luca to walk in front of her. ‘You, too, Beto. You okay to walk?’
He doesn’t waste any more breath on words but nods and gets moving.
Each hill looks like it would take a half a day to walk up, and a half a day to walk back down. The migrants file downhill in El Chacal’s wake. They’re silent now, descending into the first seam of the valley, struggling to keep their minds strong as they face the enormity of their undertaking. The wind rockets across the landscape and whips Rebeca’s hair into a black tornado. Their feet crunch through the witchy yellow grass, and Luca’s body is flooded with awful excitement. They’re in the United States now, and already it looks like a movie set, but with real desert animals that can kill you, like scorpions and rattlesnakes and mountain lions. Luca experiences a swamp of tingly, nauseating confusion.
‘Luca.’ Mami’s right behind him. Sometimes it’s like she can hear what he’s thinking. ‘You doing okay?’
He nods.
‘I’m proud of you, mijo,’ she whispers so no one else can hear. She makes a muscle. ‘Eres bien fuerte. Papi would be proud.’
El Chacal knows where there’s a water station, a place where aid workers leave water for passing migrants. He’s made them conserve their supplies anyway, because sometimes the water’s not there – sometimes the Border Patrol or vigilantes find it first and destroy it. But today it’s there, marked by a whipping blue flag atop a pole, three huge jugs sitting on a pallet beneath a tarp. It’s not cold, but it’s the best water Lydia has ever tasted. Her head was beginning to pound because she was conserving their supply, but now she drinks her fill from her canteen, and feels the pain diminish at once. It feels like a miracle, to drink. She refills her canteen again and drinks some more. Luca drinks very little.
‘As much as you can, amorcito,’ she insists.
‘But I’ll get a cramp. We have to walk so fast.’
‘Cramps you can live with,’ she says. ‘Drink.’
They rest beside the water station for ten minutes, filling their jugs and drinking and drinking, and filling them again before they strike out deeper across the valley floor. El Chacal has warned them to stay quiet, to listen all the time for the sound of engines, but the wind is too loud for that. Beto starts chatting to Choncho.
‘Where you guys from?’ Beto asks.
Choncho is slow to respond, not from reluctance, but just because that’s his way. ‘Veracruz,’ he says eventually.
‘That in Mexico?’
Another pause. ‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know they made Mexicans as big as you.’
Choncho laughs, and it sends a ripple through the whole group.
Beto looks from Choncho to his brother Slim to their two sons. ‘Everybody in Veracruz as tall as you?’
‘No,’ Choncho says slowly. ‘Much taller.’
Beto is listing all the tallest people he can think of from el dompe, when El Chacal makes the low-pitched warning whistle. Marisol spots the problem at the same time, and inadvertently cries out. She points across the valley to a ridge on the far side where a trail of fawn, powdery dust rises up through the foliage. El Chacal does his whistle once more, commanding everyone to drop, and it’s instant, the way they obey. They drop like they were shot, all fifteen of them right where they stand. ‘Get into the shade if you can,’ he says.
The light is vigorous here. To be in it is to be discovered, to be out of it is to be concealed. When the desert sunlight shines on any scrap of moving color, that color radiates like a beacon. Mami and Luca huddle together beneath the shade of a rock, pressed up beside a silk tassel tree. Catkins hang down from its branches in pale green curtains that drop their clinging flowers into Mami’s hair. Tucked into this dark alcove and curled behind their backpacks, they’re invisible from the ridge where that plume of dust is growing steadily across the hillside in a sputtering line. Around them, the other migrants squirm to find cover, flattening themselves into the parched grasses, twisting themselves into the spiky shadows of yuca fronds, folding themselves into the silhouette of a cypress tree. They all become perfectly motionless and silent. Even Beto is quiet, lying flat among the blond stalks, his toes pointing up to the sky. When three minutes have passed, they finally hear the vague rumble of an engine slurring itself into the wind. After another full minute, the vehicle appears on a slope not far above them, on the next hill over. It’s the distinct white-and-green Chevy Tahoe of the US Border Patrol.