It filled me with a childish embarrassment. I knew so little about everything. The world of Empalme was so tiny. I had been told that Obregán was enormous, but that could not have prepared me for this. And if my world was still so small, what else awaited me on this journey? The shame rippled my own foundation, sent heat into my cheeks.
What was I doing? How did I ever expect to survive a journey I knew nothing about?
I shook off the feeling and breathed in the air and energy around me. Obregán was alive. Alive during the day. I was used to silence, to the heat pushing us back indoors, away from one another, until we spilled out of our homes once nighttime returned. That was not the case here. The people rushed about, unafraid of and unconcerned with You.
They thrived in spite of You.
From the stone structure, we moved toward another building, this one capped with a gold dome shimmering in the sunlight. At the top, a small tower reached up into the sky, and there was someone up there, in a tiny window, looking out at la ciudad. The steps leading up to the entrance were covered with people, most of whom were listening to a man in a long flowing white robe. His gray beard swayed as he looked over the gathering.
“Beware of the path that strays from Solís!” he shouted. There was a murmur at this that spread throughout the crowd. “They will surely punish us again if we fail Them! Heed the warning given to us from Hermosillo!”
I didn’t understand what he meant—once again, I was lost in my own ignorance—and so I focused on the crowd that drowned out his words. Emilia tugged on me and—
“Heed the wisdom of Solís, Xochitl! Tell the truth!”
I whipped around and stared at the man in the robes, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. Neither was anyone else. He was still preaching, his audience rapt and hungry, and I shivered.
“What is it, Xochitl?” Emilia said, sidling up to me.
I scanned the crowd again.
Nothing.
“Never mind,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
I sped up, ignoring the other voices I heard: The curses from those I bumped into. The conversations floating by. The stories I ingested, each now struggling to find a way up and out of me, each one telling me to turn back, to go to Empalme, to stop this silly game, to spill them into the earth and back to Solís and—
No. No. I could not go back.
On the next corner, near the crossroads, there was a wooden sign. It directed people to various buildings or sights, but the only one that mattered to me was in bold lettering: EL MERCADO DE LA CIUDAD OBREGÁN. It pointed east and slightly to the north, and my heart began racing again. I was here. I was close. What would I find in El Mercado? What would las cuentistas be able to tell me?
I took the lead, and I pulled Emilia forward. Much as Obregán had risen out of the earth at the top of la montaña, El Mercado de Obregán now towered in front of me. There was no end to it in either direction from the corner where we came to a stop, and the white roof—stretched canvas and cloth, blocking out the sun—was a beacon in the desert.
I had to do this, Solís.
Northwest corner, I told myself, Marisol’s directions echoing in my head.
I stopped before the entrance.
“You found it,” said Emilia.
I chuckled. “Just followed the sign.”
“Maybe,” she said, and she let go of my hand. “Vámonos adentro, get some food. And then we should probably get going as soon as we can.”
She wasn’t wrong. But my hand, damp from the heat and from my nerves, twitched at my side.
I missed holding hers.
So I breathed in deep, and I entered El Mercado de Obregán alongside Emilia.
The din rang and crashed all around me. Sounds bounced off the stone walls, merged with one another, and I tried to take it all in. There was a stall directly to my left, and three people were shouting, trying to negotiate over the roots and vegetables displayed on the counter, all the produce shaped strangely and specked with dirt. The man under the blue awning yelled numbers at the patron on the other side, who consulted the third man, who then offered another number back. My gaze fell to the stall next to it, its colorful blusas stitched with bright patterns. More smells, more sounds, and I looked to my right.
The aisle stretched beyond where I could see, overflowing with people.
Everything competed for space: Bargaining. Conversations. Children yelling. Someone singing sad songs loudly over guitars and an accordion. It was a roar that filled my head, that rattled my insides.
I walked slowly to the east first, pressing in between people, muttering apologies over and over again, but no one else seemed to care about how close everyone was, that people had to basically squeeze tight to one another in order to get anywhere. The stalls were at least organized in rows, so I quickly figured out each section as I passed through it. I moved from los granjeros to what I assumed were cures for ailments of the body and mind. A young woman with skin like the thorny mesquite branches reached out to me, urged me to try her herbs, told me that they would give me a better night’s sleep. She was stunningly beautiful, and I listened to her as she listed off
