After Julio and his men took over the well and started charging la comunidad to withdraw water, some of us devised our own means of surviving. It was extra work, but it also meant that sometimes our family could go days without seeing Julio.
Raúl and I settled into our walk after I glanced briefly at the stone pit and waved at Mamá as she pulled warm tortillas off the grill. I fought to keep up with Raúl, who was not nearly so tired as I was.
I shrugged it off. We fell silent, and the heat filled the desert. There were others in Empalme who swore that the sun rose without a sound, but I still think they are wrong. The sound of sunlight is the gentle scurrying of lizards and mice, desperate to find shade and comfort. It’s the earth, groaning and creaking as it wakes up, as the moisture within it is pulled away, cracking and breaking the soil. It is the scratching echo of our feet pressing into the sand and dirt, of sweat dripping off us into the dust.
I fought the urge that came suddenly upon my body. I wanted to start running, toward las montañas to the north, to find las bestias. The mysteries. The land of thoughts come to life. My body was full of desire and longing, Solís. What was I supposed to do? Continue ignoring it? Every time I ventured into the desert to return a story, to hunt water, or for food, it haunted me. Every. Time.
I switched the bucket I held from one hand to the other, then made the sign—see the truth; believe the truth—hoping it would calm down my thoughts. Raúl’s hand flung out and stopped me and—
There. On the arms of a tall, green saguaro sat una paloma, gray and delicate. It pecked at the rough hide, and we held our breath, now as motionless as the towering cactus, and then we saw la paloma lift into the air, its wings beating, and dart off to the north.
Raúl and I exchanged a quick glance, and a smile curled up on his lips.
We followed.
Papá had taught us that life in the desert was a sign of water. Other creatures couldn’t live without it any more than we could. Normally, Papá and I braved the heat to find underground sources. There used to be a well to the east of Empalme, but bandits had ransacked it and destroyed it a couple of years ago. But I had gotten so good at picking up the signs of hidden agua that I usually did it alone these days.
I was grateful to have Raúl at my side that morning, though. We sprinted toward a patch of mesquites, and I was already panting and dripping sweat by the time we reached it and saw the colorful branches. There was no sign of la paloma anymore; it was much quicker than we were. But the smell leapt to my nose, and I knew that these árboles were alive, thriving in Your heat. There had to be water somewhere here, and I let go of my caution. I dropped to my knees at the foot of the nearest árbol and pulled out la pala that Papá had given me long ago. It was made from a thick branch of paloverde and a sheet of iron that had blown off someone’s roof one night. I plunged la pala into the ground, the dry earth fighting me every time it dug deeper and deeper. Soon, I could see moisture seeping around the sides of the hole I had made.
Raúl slumped to the ground under the flimsy shade of the mesquite. “That was quicker than usual,” he said, still out of breath. “You want to do the first bit?”
I nodded at him. “Rest,” I said.
And then I got to work.
I got another foot down in the hole before there was a sizable pool of water at the bottom. I stuck my hand out and Raúl passed over the cloth used for extracting water. I dropped it into the puddle and let it soak up some of the water, then squeezed it out into the bucket. I repeated it: Drop. Soak. Squeeze. Drop. Soak. Squeeze.
“I’m going to Ramona’s again today,” Raúl said after a long silence.
I squeezed more water out into the bucket. “What for?”
“See if Renato is around. Or if Ramona needs any help.”
Drop. Soak. Squeeze.
“Just stay away from Julio and his men,” I said.
He dismissed me with a wave. “He’s not going to pick on me. He doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Well, make sure you don’t announce your presence to him, ¿entiendes?”
He didn’t say anything else, and my stomach grumbled in the growing heat. I kept at it, trying to focus on the task, but my thoughts wandered quickly. What if I just stood up and left? What if I floated away, like una paloma, to be free? Would that be possible for someone like me? Or would I have to take stories every day for the remainder of my life? The thought pressed down on me, pushed me into the dirt, and it was harder to lift my arms, to wrench the water from the cloth, to accept that my whole life was written out for me.
“Want me to take over?”
I sat back, sweat pouring down my head, dripping into the dirt. I’d been working so hard I hadn’t even noticed that the bucket was nearly full. “Please,” I said, handing him the cloth.
He lifted his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead, but didn’t say what was on his mind. He grabbed the cloth from me, then scooted over to the hole I’d dug. But before he started, he looked back to me. “¿Te sientes bien? You seem a little…”
He didn’t finish. He dug deeper and went silent. Drop. Squeeze. Soak. Was I that obvious?
