Kipling holds a thick notebook that must contain the names of every individual who has sought shelter within these walls.
“Deben estar aquí. Tienen que estar aquí,” Lucía says. They should be here. They must be here.
Kipling flips through his records, scrutinizing every line until he comes to the last page. “Lo siento,” he says. I’m sorry. He removes his hat and places it over his heart.
“Puedes quedarte aquí y esperarlos todo el tiempo que necesites.” You can stay here and wait for them as long as you need. We’ll get you fixed up in the meantime. With a tip of his hat, he takes his leave, knowing he can do nothing more.
Ava and I watch from the center of the room as Lucía’s rosary slides from her wrist onto the floor. She falls with it, collapsing to the ground, and I run to her, scared she’ll slip through the concrete.
Lucía looks up at me with tearless eyes. She’s already been drained dry. I stand immobilized, shamed at my inability to provide any aid or comfort to the friend who has given so much to me. My shame heightens to guilt as I feel Ava’s presence move beside me. I still have her. She still has me.
“Encontraras a tu familia,” Ava tells Lucía softly. You will find your family. Her words are empty solace, but her conviction makes them sound like a promise.
I hold out my hand, Ava holds out hers, and with our remaining strength, we help Lucía to her feet. The three of us stand there, unsteady and unsure where to go inside this crowded basement. A few shadowy strangers break away from the darkened corners to lead us to a row of vacant mattresses on the floor. They offer us their blankets, their smiles, their warmth.
Roth calls these people parasites. If they are parasites, then Lucía is a parasite. Then I’m a parasite.
Roth is the bloodsucker. Not us.
My watch tells me it’s 4:30 p.m. It feels like midnight down here. I close my eyes again, hoping to trick my body into thinking it’s on a normal sleep cycle, when the oval door shrieks open.
In walks Kipling, two stuffed rucksacks swinging from each hand. He stops in front of Ava and me and offers us each a bag.
“We have nothing to give you for these supplies,” Ava says, covering the fresh bandage that hides her microchipless wrist. Our old way of payment, gone.
“Already paid for,” Kipling answers simply.
Ava and I lock eyes. Father. He must have foreseen we’d find trouble along the way.
I unzip the front pocket and find a small bag of cosmetics—good—and a sharp pocketknife, the handle wrapped in the steel rings of a knuckle duster. Even better.
“If ya’ll wanna say yer good-byes and prepare for departure . . .” Kipling says with a tip of his hat. He circles the small room, checking on travelers, and returns to the open door, where a short line has formed. The shaded outlines of men and women shoulder their packs, concealing weapons and maps beneath worn-out clothes. Kipling shakes their hands and issues soft wishes of smooth travels on the road to their next safe house. Where? Oklahoma City? Kansas? Denver?
I turn to Lucía. She pores over a map of Texas beside Ava, who grips her own, their fingers tracing routes and cities where Lucía’s family could be waiting. Wichita Falls, Abilene, Lubbock.
Finally, they each fold their paper guides and put them safely away. We hover with awkward gestures, not sure how to say good-bye. We wish each other luck. I pull Lucía in and hug her. An ordinary human act I’ve never done with anyone outside my family. I could never get too close.
“Come with us,” I hear myself asking her. She shakes her head. Of course not. She has her own journey.
“Recuerda. No tenemos miedo,” Lucía says to me. Remember. We show no fear.
AVA
When I first laid eyes on Dorothy, Kipling’s ill-favored baby-blue pickup truck, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of admiration. The rusty old thing looks like it’s been blessed with the luck of a cat clinging to its nine lives. Various pieces—the solar-paneled roof, doors, truck bed, everything—clearly originate from different sources. The truck’s been torn apart by God knows what and welded back together so many times, yet somehow she still continues to purr as she carries us valiantly across the Texas desert.
I wish I could put myself back together so easily.
A hot rush of panic suddenly threatens to take over my body. Wedged tight in the single cab seat between Mira and Kipling, I squeeze my knees together and count the insects that hurtle to their death against the windshield. Five . . . eight . . . ten . . .
I remember the symptoms of an oncoming panic attack from my studies at school. Sweating, chest pain, heart palpitations, nausea, and shortness of breath can all mimic a heart attack. I try to take deep calming breaths, but I can’t. It’s like those hostile hands are trapped inside my lungs, suffocating me. I’m overwhelmed with the fear I’ll never be able to breathe without the touch of those calloused hands again.
A dead man’s hands.
Sixteen . . . twenty . . .
I turn my focus away from the suicidal bugs when Kipling begins to softly sing aloud. His voice is full of heartache and twang and works as a balm against my secret red-hot wounds.
Look at our photograph of’en,
the one from the night we firs’ became lovers.
Keep it in the pocket ’gainst yer chest,
so it can seep into yer wounded heart.
Lemme dance there from time t’ time,
’cause I still remember how nothin’ mattered
when you had yer arms wrapped round me.
I promise t’ make it a slow one.
Underneath his worn ten-gallon hat and rugged exterior, a playful smile tugs at Kipling’s eyes, like he can see something in the distance that is hidden from me.
“Where exactly are you taking us?” I ask.
Mira shifts her gaze from the barren desert floor that races past the window to the maverick cowboy at the wheel. I note how much only three days on the road have hardened her. All the innate softness in her nature is now buried somewhere deep inside or gone forever.
Kipling lifts his right shoulder in a shrug, and his smile spreads from his eyes to his lips.
“Well, it ain’t exactly on a map.”
Mira and I exchange a sidelong glance just as the shabby truck veers wildly off road and into the open desert, our bodies slamming hard into the passenger window.
“That’s why you wear your seat belts,” Kipling says, chuckling to himself.
I wish I shared his humor.
All at once the flat land drops into a massive canyon, and my mouth falls open in wonder.
Wind, water, and time have painted perfect layers of red, white, and soft pinks into the ancient rock. The sheer canyon walls plummet hundreds of feet to the valley floor, dazzling me with nature’s vitality. There’s green in every hue imaginable: forest green in the scale-like leaves of the juniper trees, patches of kelly-green grass, pure jade in some species of subshrub, and the surprisingly bright emerald green of the familiar prickly pear cactus.
I’m drawn away from the picturesque view when Kipling stops the truck. He steps out and invites Mira and me to follow him.
“It’s a bit of a hike, but somethin’ tells me ya’ll are used to walkin’.”
We trek for a mile before I spot a curious rock formation ahead. A tall, thin rock shaped like a steeple juts out from the ground with a larger, heavier rock balanced on top.