We’d done this many times before, and yet Manolito always got so bashful before he gave me a story. He knew I wouldn’t remember it the next day, but that didn’t seem to matter to him. He’d refuse to make eye contact, would treat me as though I’d already judged him as inferior. He briefly grasped my hand, then let go of it and rushed past me. “Let me lock the door,” he said, and he dropped a thick wooden post across the doorframe to keep the door from swinging inward. The darkness settled amid the dust and silence as he stood there, his back to me.
“Xochitl,” he said, unmoving. “Please don’t judge me.”
I watched him. His shoulders heaved upward as he breathed. “You know I can’t,” I said. “That’s not what I do. I judge no one.” I moved away from the counter, toward Manolito. “You tell me your story, and I give it back to Solís. We are all cleansed by Them if we see the truth, believe the truth.”
His eyes were red and raw. “You can’t tell anyone.”
An anger hit my chest, branched outward and down my body. “I never do, Lito,” I said. “I can’t, even if I wanted to. So please, don’t say that again.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Lo siento, Xo.” His eyes flicked open, still bloodshot. “I’m afraid.”
I reached out to him again, and this time, he took my hands as he was supposed to, so I could become the conduit he needed. “Please, talk to me, Manolito. Tell me your story. I will forget it, as I always do, and you can change. Be better. Make Solís proud.”
Another deep breath from Manolito. Another jolt of fear, and this time, I could feel it as it passed down his arms and into me. It was the sign I needed, the one that told me that the connection had been made.
It was time.
Let me tell You a story, Solís.
Manolito was born back when Empalme was even smaller, still growing, and still desperately clinging to life in an arid nothingness. Only a few generations had survived La Quema, and Manolito was now the fourth born of his lineage since You took away our world.
This was before Julio, before his men arrived from some aldea in the north, and long before we had to pay someone else to access our own water.
Yet Manolito had never seen anything like Julio’s ominous appearance. The man had ridden into Empalme the week before with a party of nearly ten men and Emilia. They took up a spot on the south side of la aldea, out where the homes were sparse. Manolito kept track of them as best as he could, but they were barely seen that first week. Sometimes he would catch them inspecting parts of la aldea—particularly the well—but they otherwise kept to themselves. They never came out at night to celebrate surviving another day, to surround themselves with the light of las estrellas or to bask in the sound of los aldeanos laughing.
And then one day, as Manolito was walking away from the well with a bucket full of water, they descended.
They moved in as though it had been coordinated. Poor Ofelia, who happened to have arrived moments before to retrieve agua for herself. Julio placed his saber at Ofelia’s throat. “This well is ours now,” he said, “and I will not hesitate to spill blood over it.”
Manolito almost believed it was a joke until he saw blood dripping from the saber, watched the dry earth drink it down. Where was the blood from? Whom had he killed?
Julio’s men swept into la aldea and claimed every empty home, left behind by those who had set out, looking for work and new adventures in Hermosillo or Obregán. After that day, two of the strangers were permanently camped near the well, and they demanded payment: Food. Drink. The coins used in El Mercado de Obregán. Anything we had that we could spare. It seemed unreal, impossible.
Until la señora Sánchez tried to take her weekly portion of water.
And Julio lifted his saber into the air and severed her arm below the shoulder.
We knew he was serious then, and a terrible pall settled over Empalme. Some of us found ways to avoid him by hunting water on our own. But Manolito found that Julio increasingly relied on him, not only for supplies but for information, too. He had Lito’s mensajeros running errands for him, traveling to Obregán for tasks that were kept a secret from Lito. It became clear that Julio was not a temporary problem. He was planning on staying in Empalme.
Manolito did not know whom to tell or how to prove it. It was an instinct, a feeling deep down that Julio was digging in for the long haul. How could he stop it? How could he save Empalme from a man who demanded so much?
The package came a couple of weeks ago. Paolo had left it behind and said that it was important that Lito deliver it as soon as possible, that there would be a second shipment coming that would require this first one. Manolito did not understand what that meant, but he accepted the task. He knew that it was better to find Julio in the mornings, when the drink was wearing off. The first time they spoke after Julio had harmed la señora Sánchez, Julio became furious that Lito had not sought him out. He had run his long saber over Lito’s knuckles, asking him which finger he’d like to lose the next time.
So he resolved to deliver the wooden crate the next morning. Easy enough. It wasn’t terribly heavy, so Lito left it alone. He stuffed it on the shelf under the counter, and then a day passed.
Two.
A week.
Two weeks.
He knocked it off the shelf yesterday morning, and it tumbled to the ground, tearing open as
