“I’m just tired,” I said, which wasn’t a lie, not after taking Rogelio’s story the night before.
Raúl smiled back, and then he began to work on filling the second bucket. While he did so, my mind took flight. I thought of las poemas, letting hope spring in me. I knew them both by heart, and the second one floated up from my memory, poured into my body, filling me with its power:
Este mundo de cenizas
no puede contenerme
No hay paredes
para detenerme
Soy libre.
This world of ashes
cannot contain me
There are no walls
to stop me
I am free.
By the time Raúl finished and the two of us began to haul those buckets back to filter the water, I was aching with desire for las poemas to be in my hand again. I knew I’d have to wait until no one was looking to get at them, but it was like a terrible itch spreading over my skin. I had to see them.
Raúl was talkative on the walk back, but I responded only occasionally, mostly to let him think I was paying attention. I wasn’t. I kept repeating the phrase in my head:
Soy libre. Soy libre. Soy libre.
I wanted it more than anything. To be free of these responsibilities and rules and expectations. I wanted my own life.
Mamá was trading chisme with Papá as he worked to prepare el almuerzo for us. She took the buckets and said that she was proud of how much water we’d gotten, that she’d filter out the dirt and the rocks in a few hours. She had too much to do before los viajeros arrived. She kissed me on the forehead. Told me she loved me. Papá blew another kiss my direction.
I loved them back. I really did. And yet, as I sat down on my sleeping roll, stretching out my legs and my arms, my fingers grazed over to the loose stone. I ran my fingers over the edge of it. Wiggled it a bit in its spot. No one was looking, so I quickly removed the stone, stuffed the little pouch in there, and then covered it again.
I lay back, exhaustion taking over me. I had to rest before I saw Lito that night. I needed to recuperate.
I needed to feel less isolated.
And I needed to know who wrote las poemas.
But I was all alone there in Empalme, with no hope of ever escaping it. I closed my eyes, and I could not wait for You to sink out of the sky, for las estrellas to return.
I saw Julio again that evening before I arrived at Manolito’s. I’d passed the home of la señora Sanchez, and the sun was a sliver on the horizon, glinting off the metal of her roof. I wasn’t paying attention, and then he just loomed there, seated atop an enormous brown horse.
He was lanky and tall enough as it was, but as he glared down at me, his patchy facial hair a shadow on his face, he was a giant. Unfathomable. Impossible. I had seen few horses in my life—they were too challenging to own and care for in a world so harsh—and so it made him look even bigger.
Yet here he was. It had been only a month since he and his men arrived in Empalme, but he filled the space left behind by all those who had traveled to the north or to the south for work or for a better life. There simply weren’t enough of us willing to make him leave anymore, not when he and his men carried such sharp sabers and knives.
I stilled when I saw him. He paused, only briefly, casting a wicked glance at me, up and down, and then I noticed her—
Emilia.
She sat behind him, and her glare was somehow more stern than his. She had the same long, flowing black hair as him, the same sharp, angular features. Her brows furrowed as she looked at me with an expression that said it all: She was above us. She would not dare to lower herself to our level.
I did my best not to react, even though I found I could not tear my eyes away from her.
But they were gone, just as quickly as they had ridden into view. All I heard was the gentle plodding hooves of the horse, and I waited until they faded away before I continued on. Neither of them looked back at me. Was I unworthy of their attention? I was relieved to be able to get to Manolito’s unbothered. I was still tired from the previous night, and the thought of giving back another story weighed my body down.
But this was what I was supposed to do. I couldn’t refuse it any more than I could refuse to breathe or drink water.
El mercadito was different as night began to fall. It was not nearly as welcoming; it rested in the shadows of the buildings around it. I pushed open the door and was greeted by the sounds of a loud negotiation. Ofelia had her hands placed firmly on her hips. Manolito looked up at me, then sighed before focusing on Ofelia. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “It’s not under my control anymore.”
Ofelia’s shame spilled forth when her eyes locked with mine. It was obvious that I should not have heard this conversation. “I’ll be back, Manolito,” she said. “They can’t do this to me.”
She turned up her pointed nose at me as she passed by, but I could see the worry lines near her eyes, on her forehead. It was a mask, an attempt to make herself seem strong and powerful to me, but her eyes betrayed her.
Manolito sighed again as the door slammed shut. “Sorry, Xo,” he said. “It’s a difficult time for a lot of people.”
I stepped forward to his
