Months passed and a new year began—in fact, a new millennium. I wrote in the dirt the numbers 2000 over and over, mesmerized by this futuristic sight. Anything could happen in the year 2000. And it certainly did that summer.
It began on a particularly warm day for August, April and May being the warmest months in Chiapas. The fog had disappeared, and the sun managed to cast its heat even into the deepest shadows. Rosa and I had just finished washing clothes on the stones by the stream, but before heading back to the house to hang them on the line, we decided to bathe. We had stripped down to our underwear and were splashing water along our arms and neck, when we heard a muffled groan and then the bending and cracking of twigs.
“What is that?” she asked, looking into the thicket of bushes. We had been warned of two specific dangers in the highlands—jaguars and Zapatista rebels.
I had just dunked my whole head in the water to wet my hair. Shivering, I shook the water out of my ears and listened. Silence. Quickly, we dried ourselves and dressed.
Rosa called out a few times, “Hello. Is anyone there?” but the only answer was the raucous call of the black chachalaca.
As we made our way home along the dirt path, the basket of wet clothes bumping awkwardly between us, we laughed nervously, but kept glancing around. The sight of Tito up ahead was, for once, a welcome sight. We ran to him and told him what we heard. Reaching for the basket with one arm, he put the other around Rosa and pulled her close. I saw her stiffen at his touch.
“You are safe now, chiquita,” he whispered in her hair. “Don’t worry. Next time tell me, and I will go with you.” He smiled down at her, and she quickly pushed herself away from his grasp. The guttural sound of his voice vibrated down to the pit of my stomach. As we headed up the path, I reached for her hand, but she hurried ahead without a glance back.
The next morning, I woke as light was just creeping through the cracks in the stick walls. I could see Mamá was still sleeping, and as I turned to see if Rosa was preparing the morning meal, I saw Tito outside, looking in through the small window beside us, his hungry gaze resting on a sleeping Rosa whose leg was exposed outside her blanket. There was a jerking movement to his body as he watched her. When it dawned on me what he was doing, I gasped, and Tito’s eyes met mine and widened in alarm. In a panic, he backed away from the window and stumbled over something that made a loud crash. Cursing loudly, he startled everyone awake. In seconds, Mamá, Rosa, and the boys were up and running outside to see what caused the commotion, everyone except me. I couldn’t move, my heart racing as I now understood exactly who was watching us bathe the day before.
Tito was the first one to come through the doorway, limping slightly and refusing Mamá’s help. Then he turned toward me with narrowed eyes. As I sat up and started to speak, he grabbed my little brother José as if to steady himself, but his hands swiftly shifted from my brother’s thin shoulders to his neck. Tito’s eyes bore deeply into mine as his fingers flexed, until I closed my mouth and he released his grip. Neither Rosa nor Mamá noticed a thing.
I knew I should tell Rosa, but I didn’t want to frighten her. As for Mamá, what could I say? Even if I did, would she believe me?
“What is wrong with you?” Rosa asked several times during breakfast. “You are so quiet. Why aren’t you eating anything?”
I couldn’t look her in the eye. My head swirled with the thought of Tito touching himself and looking at her. Where would this lead? What would happen next? Mamá had to know, but would Tito really hurt the boys?
Tito stayed close to the house that day, using his twisted ankle as an excuse. He left no opportunity for me to be alone with either Mamá or Rosa. I could feel his eyes on me, like a snake watching a mouse scurrying up the path. That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept as close to Rosa as I could. Once I heard Tito snoring, I managed to relax and doze off a bit.
The next morning, while making breakfast, Mamá asked me to take the boys to the well to fetch water. Tito was still asleep.
“Come with me,” I said to Rosa, who was mixing masa.
“No, no, I need her here,” Mamá said.
“Hurry. Fill all the buckets.” Hurry, I did. But by the time I got back, only Mamá was in the house.
“Where is Rosalba? Where is she?” I asked, looking anxiously around.
Mamá tilted her head, “Ay, Dios mío! You can’t live a minute without your sister?” She shook her head.
“Mamá, you don’t understand. Where is she? Where is Tito?”
“Tito decided to go into town to get a few things. He’s still hobbling on that ankle, so he asked Rosa to go along with him to help.”
My heart sank. “No, Mamá, no!”
“What do you mean, No? They’ll be back before dark.”
I paced wildly, my heart racing at the thought.
“How long ago? When did they leave?” It took half an hour to get down to where he kept his old pickup, and with his ankle, perhaps even longer.
“What is wrong with you?” My mother stopped folding the blankets and turned. She lifted her chin. “What?”
“Oh, Mamá. I saw him. Saw Tito . . . looking at Rosa, and . . .” I glanced toward the door where the boys were playing outside. “I saw him . . . touch himself.”
Her eyes widened.
“Mamá, he might hurt her. I have to go. I have to find them. I have to stop him.”
“Stop him?” Her eyes flared. “Stop him
