I had to keep a clear mind, and so I kept my breathing regular, something Papá had taught me from his trips to Obregán. In, out, in, out, in a constant rhythm. I kept going. Every doubt I had was burned away by the sun, by the distance I put between my old life and … this.
What was this? What would this become? Who would I become?
They ran up to me then, and I was so convinced that my mind was playing tricks on me that I only glanced at los lobos and kept walking. I had seen lobos in the desert many times, and they were skittish bestias. They did not attack humans unless given a reason to. But one of them—large, with fur that was the color of sand and dirt—bolted in front of me, and finally I heard them.
You are la cuentista, they said.
I stopped walking, stilled by the realization washing over me.
The guardians.
They had not left after all.
“I am,” I said, my voice shaking. They had never spoken to me in all the years I’d been in Empalme. Never spoken to anyone, really, except la Señora Sánchez and elders before her.
You are leaving, they said, and they sat on the trail in front of me. The others—their coats varying shades of brown and gray—assembled behind the largest one. They all stared right at me, but only one of them spoke to me.
We will take care of Empalme, they said.
“But la señora Sánchez told us last night that you had left us,” I countered. “That you had abandoned us.”
That is not our way, they said. We only hid from the one who attacked us.
“He is not from Empalme. And he is gone.”
We know.
I took a step forward, and I knelt in front of them. “You will stay?”
Empalme needs our help while you are away. Until you return.
I grimaced. “I am not so sure I will.”
They regarded me, saying nothing. You will return, and you will change it all.
They moved off to the east. What did that mean? I had no time to ask. They left me in the dirt, under Your heat.
They left me alone.
They left me free.
I continued to walk to the north, continued to push out every fear that cropped up, every bit of terror that hid within the stories I had. There was a comfort in knowing that our guardians had not left us, but I still had to distract myself in order to remain hopeful.
So I imagined myself with wings, great big brown appendages with sleek feathers, and I thought of pitching up and down in the air, watching the land pass below me. Flying over montañas, over valles, wherever I wanted.
Wherever I wanted. An hour later, I glanced back.
Empalme was out of sight.
No mound, no speck of dust, nothing.
I was farther out in the desert than I had ever been, and each step was a choice, was a conscious decision, was an act of freedom. No one was telling me to take a story. No one was telling me that it had to feel good to be needed. Every bit I moved forward plunged me further into the utterly unknown.
For the time being, no one was looking over my shoulder, no one was expecting anything of me, and I got to choose whatever I wanted to do.
Soy libre.
The sensation dripped down with each bead of sweat.
Each step I took.
Each breath that filled my lungs.
I was supposed to be free.
I was supposed to choose myself.
Manolito visited me before el mediodía.
I knew the desert played tricks on the mind. I was focused on breathing evenly, breaking my routine only when I had to direct myself around saguaros or down into small ravines. I remained careful not to lose my footing, and I kept an eye on las montañas to the north so as not to drift too far from the trail that ran toward it.
I remembered Marisol’s instructions: find Los Gemelos.
As the sun’s heat spread over my skin, I started thinking about my time as a cuentista. The elation I felt over my newfound freedom—and the guilt of my failures that pierced me—finally gave way to something new. What are You to me? I wondered. My only connection to You was these stories, the refuse that poured out of my mouth, bitter and thick, and into the earth. They were my responsibility.
But Solís, You had remained silent my entire life. I was Your cuentista, but what were You to me?
More and more sweat dripped down my face. I stopped every quarter hour to take a small drink of water, then continued on. I was the only sound in every direction. Who else would be foolish enough to walk for miles and miles during the hottest part of the day? Not the creatures that thrived out here. Even they knew this was the time for resting, for hiding, for disappearing.
But not me. I was alone out here.
Soy libre.
He stood off to the side, his form nearly hidden behind a thick saguaro trunk, and it was only the flash of red, the blood from where his arm had been torn off, that caught my eye. I had almost missed him.
Don’t trust it, I told myself. It isn’t real.
I spun my leather pack around to the front, then unlatched it so I could get some water. I was starting to sense the pressure building, first behind my eyes, then on the back of my neck. I’d been under the sun for a long time, and my body was trying to warn me to rest, to drink water, and that’s why it sent me the bloody image of Manolito.
At least that’s what I tried to convince myself of. I settled my bag on my back again, pushed on farther and—
He
was
right
there.
Standing so close to me now, blood oozing out of the stump where his
