Julio believed that he had been weak not to defend his family, and it was not long before his time in Solado transformed to bitterness. He should not have been asleep, he reasoned, or he should have woken up when los pálidos came to steal them away.
No matter how often his wife, Alegría, or Emilia told him there wasn’t anything he could have done, he still believed with his whole heart that he could have saved them.
Alegría, however, adapted. She had a daughter to raise, and Emilia grew up with a mother who taught her many things, but of them all, the most important was how to thrive. “This is not enough,” she told Emilia once when she was little. “One day, I will get us out of here, mija. I promise you. But until then, you must feel alive.”
She taught Emilia weaving, which came naturally to Alegría, but Emilia struggled with it. Alegría made colorful, vibrant serapes, taking inspiration from the layers of rock and sediment they found deep below the ground. These caught the attention of los pálidos, the strange people whom they never saw without their ghastly outfits. It wasn’t long before they realized they could make money off Alegría’s work, and then she was given a privilege few enjoyed:
Alegría could leave Solado.
So Alegría was allowed back aboveground, and Julio despised his wife for the freedom. He felt he should be the one allowed out so he could begin to plot their escape. But Alegría assured him that this was meant to be, that she would find a way to free them all.
But Emilia’s father never truly believed her, and his acidic resentment grew and grew.
Alegría’s time was split: she would spend weeks weaving down below, then would go away for days at a time, only to return with stories of the land around Solado. “Solo era ceniza,” she told Emilia. “Solís took Their anger out up there. It really is poison.”
“How do you survive, Mami?” Emilia asked.
“Los pálidos give me their masks,” she explained. “They are uncomfortable. But they keep me alive.”
One morning, Alegría sneaked Emilia through the tunnels, past the crops and other homes and the large hall for meeting others. She showed her daughter the exit she always used whenever she left their underground world. She walked Emilia back slowly, forced her to memorize everything she passed.
“One day,” she told her, “you may need to leave. I want you to know how.”
Emilia did not understand, but she obeyed.
Alegría gave her daughter stories. She taught her about their old home, of the forests that seemed to stretch up to las estrellas, of all the growth that had sprung to life after Solís set the world on fire. “I miss seeing the sky,” she admitted. “The blue. The sun. The way the light filters through tall branches.”
“Is the sky not blue anymore, Mami?”
“Sí, mija, it still is,” she said, stroking Emilia’s hair. “I just don’t see it that much.”
“What do you see? What is above the earth?”
She told her. Of aldeas near and far, of those who lived aboveground in the sun and heat, who hunted water, who lived en las montañas. She told her everything she could.
She even said that the land above Solado was destitute, that Solís must have punished the original inhabitants with a unique fury.
Whenever Alegría was home, Emilia was inseparable from her. They weaved together; Emilia learned how to use a loom; Alegría taught her how to tie back her hair quickly and efficiently. They were constantly at each other’s side.
And Julio came to resent that, too.
Five years ago, Alegría disappeared. She was taken above-ground for a delivery, and she had kissed Emilia on the forehead before leaving. “Hasta pronto,” she said. “I’ll have a surprise for you when I return.”
One day became two.
Became seven.
Became a hundred.
Julio began to drink again.
Emilia clung to hope for a long time. Success kept Mami away, she reasoned. Each morning, she expected that when she opened her eyes, Alegría would be back at her loom, weaving a new, more colorful design, and she would welcome Emilia with open arms and a story.
But it never happened.
And Emilia sank deeper into her grief.
It was around this time that strange creatures began to haunt the passageways in Solado. Sabuesos, they were called. It seemed to be a rumor at first, but not long after Alegría disappeared, Emilia was certain she saw one in the fields, stalking behind rows of maíz. She tried to tell her papi about it, but … well, Emilia’s father had his own life to live.
This was how it went: He tended the fields during the day, harvesting food that mostly went to los pálidos. Then, Julio would leave in the early evening to go find his friends, and Emilia knew he would not return until he was even more drunk, even more resentful. He would come back and shower Emilia with kisses and affection in apology. Then he would gently pick at her, criticize her, remind her that she was not her mother, and then the yelling would begin. He hated that Alegría had left, he hated that he was not so talented as she, he wished he could have sold the serapes instead, and it happened over and over and over again.
Emilia missed her mami terribly, but it was not until Alegría was gone for over a year that she realized she also missed her best friend.
So Emilia stopped talking. What was there to say to Papi anymore? She could only apologize so much for something that was out of her control. So when the guardian appeared at her door—in the form of un perro, a long, lanky creature with dark, short fur, black spotted with gray—Emilia assumed the worst. Her mother was gone forever, and they had come to take her next.
But the guardian said nothing. They sat next to Emilia,
