I should have felt relief as I looked upon the flickering light that danced in front of the dark outline of some large structure. There were people there gathered around a fire, and they turned to see who was approaching.
Emilia had done it. We did not get lost at all, and she’d accomplished it without a guide or a map.
She had done it, Solís, as promised.
But then an anger filled me. Emilia was telling the truth, which meant that You really had guided her.
Why?
Why had You chosen her when I had been so loyal to You for half my life?
Emilia eagerly ran toward the flames, toward the person she apparently knew, toward certainty. I watched her greet and hug a man, saw her turn to the others and introduce herself, and this all seemed so easy for her.
I shoved the anger down and kept it to myself. These people wouldn’t understand me. And I feared that ultimately Emilia wouldn’t either.
When I walked up to the fire, Emilia turned and then waved me over. There were six others by my count, mostly men and one older woman, a young boy clinging to her side.
“Let me introduce you, Xochitl, to everyone else,” Emilia said.
There was Jorge, tall and wiry, his face seemingly stuck in a goofy grin. These farms and fields had long been in the family, and Jorge’s mother had passed them on to her children before she passed. She had taught the twins how to till the land, how to rotate out crops, how to use every drop of water that fell from the sky, ran down from las montañas, or lay deep within the ground. He explained to me over dinner that night how more and more people were passing through his fields, getting lost in the maíz, as they tried to find work or new homes in the surrounding desert. He decided to open his home and his lands to them, and for the past three years, this had been a safe haven for those who traveled.
And then there were those who traveled.
Rosalinda, short, round, who never drifted far from her son, Felipe. He had her curved face, her big cheeks, her thick black hair. They had been traveling for over a month, had come from Hermosillo, had escaped something that Rosalinda would not explain, and I knew not to ask her about it.
There was Eliazar, a flash of gray in his hair, his beard full and long, his smile infectious and joyous. He was much more eager to talk, more willing to spill the details of who he was and where he’d been. He had been walking for over a year, had come from El Mar, far out to the east, a place I’d only heard of in stories that seemed magical and impossible.
Then there was Roberto y Héctor, who sat close together, stealing glances at each other, always touching, their gaze dancing off the rest of us. Roberto reminded me of Papá: tall, long, flowing hair, with a wide chest and dark eyes. Héctor was smaller, his face long and sharp, and he wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone.
They smiled briefly. They said hello. That was all.
“There’s agua over near the house,” Jorge announced. “Take as much as you need to drink, but no bathing.”
I nodded at Jorge, and that smile of his spread across his face. “Gracias, compadre.”
“And where do you come from, señorita?”
He asked this as I sat next to Emilia. I hesitated. Maybe it was smart to keep things to yourself, but we were so far from my home. There was a freedom in that; no one here knew who I was, what was attached to me. What I had done. I could choose to be who I wanted to be, how I wanted to present myself.
“Empalme,” I said. “It’s about two days to the south.”
“Ah, someone else from the south,” said Rosalinda. “Bienvenida.”
“And are you seeking something? Someone?” Jorge asked.
I looked to Emilia, who simply inclined her head.
“Someone,” I said. “In Solado.”
At the mention of Emilia’s home, Héctor bolted upright. The motion was so quick that it startled me. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and panic spread over his features. He glanced back down at his partner, who reached up and held his hand, guided him back down. Lips quivering, he sat. Then he whispered something to Roberto, too low for any of us to hear.
“Not now,” said Roberto. “They won’t believe us anyway.”
“Believe you about what?” I said.
A silence fell over the group. Our attention was on Roberto and Héctor, who seemed to shrink before us, as if they were willing themselves to be smaller.
“Te dije que te creo,” said Jorge, his voice soft, his grin gone. “Does it matter if they do?”
The rest of us looked at one another.
“I feel like I missed something important,” I admitted.
“Niña, we all did,” said Rosalinda, and she stroked Felipe’s hair as he lay with his head in her lap. “What’s wrong with Solado?”
Emilia was shaking her head. “Why were you two going there?”
“I heard there was work,” said Roberto, and he ran his hand up and down Héctor’s arm. “It ran out in our aldea, so we headed north to find something.”
“Oh, we found something,” Héctor spat out. “Don’t go to Solado. You’ll never make it.”
“I’m from there,” Emilia said. “We’ll be fine.”
Héctor’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going back?”
“We are,” I said, sticking my legs out in front of me and bending forward, thankful for the stretch it gave my muscles. “She has something to retrieve, and I have someone to see.”
“You’ll never make it,” repeated Héctor, shaking his head, still not looking at us. “You can’t go.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Emilia. “I’ve lived there. I know how to keep us safe from los—”
Now Héctor lifted his head, and his eyes bore straight into Emilia, straight into me. “That’s not what
