Shortly after sunrise, as the heat began to claim us once again, there was a sharp cry up ahead, not so much of warning, but disturbing in its animal-like moan. I wondered if someone had come across a deadly snake or even a scorpion. Gathering strength, we hobbled quickly forward. One man before me sank to his knees, while a woman turned away, clutching her stomach, then bent forward with dry heaves.
Manuel arrived first and, with his arm, pushed me behind him in a fiercely protective manner. I peeked around his shoulder, preparing myself for a coiled beast, but instead what I saw beneath a bush were the decayed remains of the few who had come before us. Clothing and bones were intertwined. Clumps of long black hair clung to the brush, refusing to be swept away in the warm desert winds. One of the skulls glared at the sky; the other was turned away.
“Looks like two women and two children,” a man beside them said, bowing his head.
“We should bury them,” said another.
“No, we haven’t the time or the strength,” a woman said, leaving us all in silence. No one refuted her statement.
“Es verdad. Pray for their souls and let’s move on,” our guide said.
Rosa was sobbing as I numbly took her arm and moved her forward. Manuel took her other arm. But within a matter of minutes, we were walking single file again, each in our own personal struggle. Then just a few kilometers ahead, another body. A full skeleton splayed out face down, faded blue baseball cap intact, arms stretched before him. I wondered if he had set out to find help for the ones behind. If so, they must have died hoping that help was on the way, while he died knowing it wasn’t.
Maybe Professor Garcia was right. He’d been right the summer Señorita Garcia’s novio died. I tried to remind myself of the many who made it, but the image of the others was too fresh to lighten my heavy heart.
As the sun peaked in the sky, our group began to struggle and stumble, some as muscle cramps began to plague them (something we had been warned about if we didn’t drink enough water), while others, like me, were weighed down by the sight that had sapped our already waning spirits. A few insisted they needed to stop and rest, while others feared we would never awaken. Too exhausted to care, I collapsed onto the ground, my head on my pack. Instantly, I fell deep asleep. No dreams, no restlessness, just a painless blank—until my head began to throb, throb, throb. Suddenly, Manuel was tugging me awake. I refused to respond and nestled deeper into my cocoon. To my surprise, he twisted my arms until they hurt. He had never been so rough before.
“All right!” I said, trying to push myself up, but my hands were useless. Suddenly, with a jerk, I was pulled to my feet. As I came to my senses, I saw that it was not Manuel who was tugging on me, but a Border Patrol agent.
“You cabrones are lucky we found you,” he was saying. “Do you know how many have died in this hellhole?”
Rosa stumbled toward me. Her eyelids were slightly swollen, so I couldn’t read her face. We leaned into each other. Manuel stood beside us, his head hanging down. As disappointed as I was, I was also relieved. We wouldn’t die in the desert after all, but would we begin again? I’d heard others speak of their fourth, fifth, sixth crossing. I couldn’t even think on that level; it was too much.
As we climbed into their vehicle, I thought of Papá. Had he gone through this type of journey as well? I had always pictured him riding in a truck like he did on his way to work the fields in Oaxaca. But now I realized that his crossings were just as perilous. I couldn’t imagine him dying in the desert, though; he was too smart for that. He’d made the trip so many times; he’d know the best place to cross. But we were not so savvy, and I wasn’t so sure of Señor José and his safest routes either. Glancing at Rosa, whose head was in her clasped hands, I knew we were foolish to attempt this again. This thought became even clearer as we bumped endlessly through the desert in the Border Patrol vehicles, coming finally to an isolated two-lane highway where a van was waiting to transport us to headquarters. I doubt we would have made it on foot; certainly, some of us would have perished.
“How did they find us out there?” I heard a woman ask as we were transferring to the van.
“El pájaro grande. The big bird in the sky,” was the reply. “Didn’t you hear the helicopter pass over?”
They did not tie our hands this time, for none of us had the strength to fight or the foolishness to run. We eagerly accepted the water bottles and gulped them down despite instructions to take it slow.
As I settled into a seat beside Rosa, she turned to me and through cracked lips said, “No more. We are not crossing again.”
Looking back at the endless stretch of desert, I thought now of our journey south. To what? Certainly not Chiapas. Oaxaca? Señorita Garcia would help us there. But Oaxaca for me was Papá. And Papá wasn’t in Oaxaca. Papá was, possibly, I hoped, I felt, in el norte. And then there was Manuel. Surely, he would not turn back, and I could not imagine my life without him now. So, where did that leave me? I could never part from Rosa, yet I could not see myself going back. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the seat. The vision of the skeleton stretched out in the desert floated vividly
