She was serious.
“You’re going to go back for her?”
“They took my guardian from me,” she said. “And I just know it—I feel it in my heart—Luz is still alive.”
She went silent, and her shoulders drooped. “They took my best friend from me.”
“And you’d go to Solado to get her back? And introduce me to Simone?”
“Without question,” she said, gazing back up at me. “You help me, and I will do the same for you.”
Una vida sin el poder de una cuentista. I couldn’t imagine it. No more stories. No more responsibilities I did not ask for. No more exhaustion. My freedom from Empalme … what if that could last forever?
It was too irresistible.
So I did not resist it.
I put my hand over my eyes, then over my heart. “I’ll do it,” I said.
“Gracias—” Emilia began, her eyes lighting up with relief.
“But we go to Obregán first.”
She squirmed. “Shouldn’t we keep going?”
I scoffed at her. “First, we are not going anywhere right now. I’m exhausted and I need to sleep.”
“No, I meant—”
I raised a hand to stop her. “I know what you meant. But I need to get supplies in Obregán, and there are some people I need to see.” When she frowned, I continued. “We do it my way, or we don’t do it at all.”
“Bueno,” she said. “I brought some things, but I don’t think it’s enough.”
She paused.
Hand over the eyes, then over the heart.
The sign.
See the truth; believe the truth.
It meant that she was telling the truth.
The pact was sealed.
“And you’re sure you know the way to Solado?”
She hesitated. “Sí,” she said. “Not precisely the same way we came here, but I know how.”
I let my suspicion pass. She had a solid motivation to get to Solado, and Julio had not sprung himself on us. She was most likely telling the truth. And it wouldn’t make sense for her to guide me to the middle of nowhere, because … well, she would die, too.
“We’ll get there. Together.”
“Together,” I repeated.
A warmth flooded my chest, pushed the stories further down.
“We leave in the morning,” I said, trying to ignore the sensation. “You have any agua left?”
She nodded. “Not much.”
“Let’s use yours to clean you off. Shouldn’t be too far tomorrow to get more.”
Emilia was still shaking as she sat there, so I dropped myself down beside her, took her canteen, and poured a tiny amount into my left hand. “May I?” I asked her, and she held out her right arm to me, nodding, and I used the water to wipe the blood and dirt off as best as I could.
I poured more water into my hand, then took her left hand in mine. I ran water over it and gazed up at her. Her eyes were locked with my own. They were dark. Soft. Vulnerable.
If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t be here.
I ran my hand up her left arm, toward her elbow, and then she jerked away, tucking her arm close to her body, and wouldn’t look at me.
Why is she afraid of me? I thought.
And the darkest part of me—my terrible doubt, those terrible stories—answered back:
Because you deserve it.
“I’ll do that,” she announced, and she took the canteen back. Just like that, we returned to coldness. To what we had been a day earlier.
To being strangers.
“Fine,” I said, and I walked to my sleeping roll and lowered myself to it, eager to get some sleep before that night got any stranger. A few minutes later, I heard Emilia’s footsteps near me.
“Gracias,” she said, but I did not turn to look at her. “For helping me.”
She rolled out something next to me, not too close, and I heard her body settle on the ground. I was facing Obregán—there was a light in the sky above it—and I counted some of las estrellas that still shone brightly. Emilia’s breathing slowed, and she fell asleep shortly after that. I was aware of how close she was, but I didn’t move, didn’t turn toward her. As my heart raced, I spoke the words to her, like a prayer to the desert, to the night and las estrellas:
“You’re welcome.”
I slept.
I dreamed of Mamá.
We were outside our home, behind it, and the sun was setting. As it sank in the west, Mamá twirled. She spun in a dance, her black hair parted down the middle of her head, and it flowed evenly on either side of her face. She called out my name in a musical whisper. Xochitl! Xochitl! She would reach for me, but every time I stretched out, we couldn’t touch. We couldn’t close the chasm between us. She spun farther and farther, and I brought my leg up to step forward, but I couldn’t move in that direction.
She danced and danced and danced, away from me, away from my outstretched arms, and she sang my name the entire time.
Xochitl!
Xochitl!
Xochitl!
I could not answer her.
Then I dreamed of Papá. We were in the center of Empalme, and he floated out from our stone well, his arms crossed in front of him, cradling a baby swaddled in a colorful serape. He wouldn’t look at me. “Papá!” I called out, but his eyes were trained on the infant he held, and he rocked him, cooed at him, raised a finger and brushed it over the face, and somehow, I knew it was Raúl.
He made a gesture with his hand, beckoned me toward him, and this time, I could move with ease, and so I slunk over to Papá, and he peeled back the serape, and I screamed and screamed and screamed, and then he dropped Raúl’s head, a tongue fell from the mouth of mi hermano, and Papá laughed and laughed and laughed—
I awoke covered in sweat. I sat upright, and Emilia was curled up, unmoving, unaware of my terror, and the world was still and silent around me. I remained there, my eyes adjusting to the darkness just before dawn. The stars
