There are no emotions I do not empathize with anymore. For a cuentista, there is nothing new under You, Solís. Empalme has been giving me stories since I was a child, and then I return those stories to the desert, to You.
I have felt it all:
Regret. Anger. Distress. Sadness. Hatred. Envy. Disappointment.
I may forget the details, but I know that those in Empalme have felt every emotion imaginable. I knew what mi gente suffered with in their lives. At least, I thought I did.
Except—Julio and his men.
They had been a mystery to me, and not only because I did not know where they had come from. Probably from another aldea, some other place they stole from and exploited. They had refused our rituals and our guidance, and they didn’t care if we were worried that You would return and scorch it all out of existence again. We were superstitious and silly to them, and that’s why Julio had said we deserved to be conquered. “You are all like this,” he slurred to Papá one morning during that first week he arrived; it was also the last day that we relied on our weekly portion from the well. “The last aldea I controlled, they were just as weak as you. Waiting for Solís to save them.” He brushed his hand across the face of mi papá. “Their god didn’t show when I slaughtered them all.”
Was he telling the truth? Why did he choose us? Was this a test, Solís? Did You want to see what we would do?
I thought of that as I let You pull me down, down. And then I knew I was ready.
I slowly leaned forward, close to the ground, felt the dirt and stones tear into my palms and knees. I pressed myself closer to the earth, hunched over, and Manolito’s story was ready to leave.
It churned within me, and then it poured out of my mouth, into the nooks of the desert, deep into the dirt, and it was filthy, thick, bitter. I coughed as it exited me, and I lost the weight of it. I rolled back, wiping at the acidity as I panted, and stared up at those estrellas far in the distance, their brightness twinkling at me.
Manolito’s story was gone, sent back to You, and I shook.
I trembled there on the desert floor, exhausted by the experience.
Except that didn’t happen.
I remained hunched over the ground, the story churning in me, climbing up my throat, but … The vials. I couldn’t believe it. What did they mean? What was the second shipment? What is coming to Empalme?
I had intended to give his story to You, to give up the burden and Lito’s fear and my own knowledge of it all.
I leaned down closer until my mouth was nearly touching the dirt. I let the story move again, and a burning sensation crept up my throat and—
It slid back down.
Nausea swelled up from my stomach and threatened to spill everything out, but I stopped the story from rising again. It fought me, barbs of fear jutting out into my body, and the sharpness of it caused me to cry out, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t give this up.
The vials.
The second shipment.
And then the last thing.
A word—a title—a hope that seemed impossible. That should have been impossible.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe I should have ignored it.
But Julio is a cuentista. How? How? And he had left his aldea? How was that even possible?
I knew my decision was wrong, but it was still mine. So I rose from the ground and felt the story drop lower in me. Manolito’s emotions churned. An anxiety threaded my ribs, stitched terror to my insides, but I couldn’t give his story back to You.
I kept it. I’m sorry, Solís. But I had to—You’ll see.
But as I stumbled away from the desert, my bearings a horrific mess, I already knew I had to start lying.
Immediately.
Omar was leaving the well, and I tried to rush past it, hoping that he wouldn’t see me, but he called out my name. Twice. He jogged toward me. “Lo siento por molestarte,” he said, “but I was hoping you could help me.”
“Sure,” I slurred, and I tried to avoid making eye contact.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up at him, at his short-cropped hair and high cheekbones, at the concern etched into his face. The thought popped into my head in an instant.
He knows.
I choked back a cry, then covered my mouth. “Sorry,” I blurted, and the lie rolled out so easily that it unnerved me. It was as sudden and natural as the paranoia swirling inside. “I just finished … just did the…”
“Oh, Xochitl,” he said, his hands up, palms out. “I had no idea. This is a bad time, I can see that now. Can I get you anything? Do you need water? Do you know where you are?”
I narrowed my own eyes at him. “In … I’m in Empalme?”
“Sí, you are,” he said. “We all know how bad your memory can get sometimes.”
My face twisted into a glare, but I recovered. “Gracias, Omar,” I said. “But I will be fine.”
“Do you need me to walk you home?”
I shook my head quickly. “No, no, I know where it is.”
He knows.
His eyes looked over my face again, and he smiled. “I’ll find you tomorrow,” he said. “Get some rest, Xochitl. Y gracias por lo que haces.”
Then he was gone, another shadow heading toward the nightly fire.
He knows.
I tried to push it out of my head, out of my body, but my own fear spiked in my gut. When it did, it met Manolito’s own. The two twined together, and I had to crouch over, let my nausea pass.
I had now kept a story for longer than ever before.
And I was terrified.
I pushed myself east, toward home, and exhaustion threatened to pull my eyes shut, but I kept going, my pace brisk, but as
