Bewere the Night

By the voice, she guessed him to be one of the younger ones—probably the weedy kid, fifteen at most, and twitchy with nerves. “I’d rather she shut up. Do you have any idea how far noise like that’s gonna carry, once we’re out in the desert?”

Better than you do. Instead she answered, “Let her tire herself out now; then she’ll be quiet later. The hard part’s still ahead of us.”

“Noasked you,” the boy said, but it was sullen rather than threatening. When noelse spoke up in his support, he made a disgusted sound and fell silent. The mother was stiff at Ines’ side, but she made no protest when Ines held her fingers out blindly, for the baby to play with. A bump in the road sent her backpack toppling from her lap, but an anonymous hand pushed it back into place.

Some time after that, the truck slowed, turned, left the paved road. Ines guessed they had been driving for maybe three hours; presuming they were going east, that put them well past Yuma, into the harsh desert of Sonora. So far, at least, the rumors were true.

Knowing still didn’t prepare her for what greeted the migrants when the truck rattled to a halt and Pipo let them out. All around was hard dirt and scrub brush, blue and gray beneath the brilliant canopy of the stars. Ines found herself suddenly, irrationally reluctant to leave the truck; it was the only human thing in sight, and once it was gone, they would be completely at the mercy of the coyotes.

Where is El Rojo?

He appeared without warning, from what Ines would have sworn was an empty patch of desert. The coyote sauntered toward them, hands comfortably in his pockets, but she wasn’t fooled by the show of relaxation; the wary grace of his movement said he was very much alert. “Any trouble?” he asked.

Pipo bent to murmur in his ear. Ines, straining to hear, caught a scrap about the baby. El Rojo’s lip curled in annoyance, and her muscles tensed. But the mother had paid, and a coyote who abandoned his cargo too easily would soon get a reputation that destroyed future business. He waved Pipo back, and turned his attention to the waiting group.

“Listen carefully,” he told them, in a quiet voice that raised the hairs on Ines’ neck, “because anywho dies from not paying attention won’t be my problem.

“We’re going over the fence. Pipo and the boys will show you how. Anywho makes a sound while we’re climbing over will pay for it. Anywho hesitates gets left behind. When I run, you run until I stop. Anywho can’t keep up, gets left behind. We’ll go until midday, rest for four hours, move again. I say ‘quiet,’ you shut up or pay for it. I say ‘hide,’ you go straight for the nearest cover, get low, don’t move until I tell you. Me and the boys leave, you stay where you are, unless you feel like dying. I give you any other orders, you obey, and don’t ask questions. Got it?”

He waited until every migrant had nodded. Nodared make a sound, not even to say yes. When he had agreement, El Rojo said, “Let’s go.”

The fence was a black scar across the desert’s face, looming high overhead. No cameras or lights out here, Ines knew, unless vigilantes on the other side had installed their own—but she trusted El Rojo to be canny enough to know if they had. Didn’t trust the man any further than that, but to be competent at his business, yes. He had a good system for crossing, too. Pipo made a cup of his hands and lifted his boss to the top of the wall, where El Rojo balanced easily and unfurled a rope ladder, which one of the other men staked down in the dirt. It seemed considerate, until Ines saw how much more quickly people climbed, not having to rappel; and the ladder was more portable than a rigid one, less permanent than a tunnel. It fit everything she knew about him: quick, simple, and above all, efficient.

It was hardest for the women with small children. Mindful of El Rojo’s warning, Ines held out her hands wordlessly; after a moment’s hesitation, the mother she’d been sitting next to handed over her daughter, then climbed the ladder. When she was at the top, Ines stretched up to give the sleepy infant back. Then she did the same for the other two, quickly soothing the one baby who looked likely to fuss. Pipo glared, but said nothing.

She was the last one over, except for the coyotes. Not letting herself hesitate, Ines balanced on the swaying rope ladder and scrambled up to the top. With her hands braced on the fence’s edge, she swung one leg over—and there she paused.

One foot in each world. It felt like it should mean something, like this fence, this barrier dividing one nation from its neighbor, should mark some profound transition. It didn’t. The desert on the far side looked no different. It was all borderland, and its inhabitants, regardless of nation, had more in common with each other than with those who lived inside. She had always stood with one foot in each world; only now it was literally true.

Ines swung her other leg over and dropped to the ground below. Now she was just another illegal immigrant, risking her life to enter the United States.

As soon as she landed, El Rojo began to run.

Across the hard-packed stripe of the border road, through the scrubby bushes beyond, not waiting for the coyotes to pack up the ladder and climb down after them. They, Ines supposed, would catch up soon. The pace El Rojo set was steady, but not too fast; they would be at this for a while. She settled her backpack on her shoulders and relaxed into her stride.

The ones with children had it worst. Ines hung back, trying with her presence to give them support; it was easier to run in company than alone. The baby girl she’d played with in the truck, jolted into unhappy wakefulness, started to wail, and the mother clapped a desperate hand over her daughter’s mouth. Ines tensed, looking at El Rojo, but it seemed the order against noise had only applied at the fence.

Or perhaps the paying would come later.

She worried about the older man, too. This would be a hard enough journey for her, and she was young, fit, and used to the trials of the desert. How much worse would it be for him? But the man had energy enough to spare her a rueful smile as he ran. Ines wondered what his story was. Everyone who crossed the border had one.

Running, running through the night, El Rojo in the lead, and Ines fixed her gaze on his back, as if he were prey she would wear down and finally catch.

By the time they slowed to a walk, many of the migrants were gasping. Everyone reached for water; the less cautious gulped theirs, thinking only of immediate thirst, and not the miles of desert that still lay ahead. Ines sipped cautiously, trying to estimate how far they’d come. Two miles from the border? To the left, the ground rose in a thin, jagged line. The Sierra Pinta, if she was reading their location right. El Rojo would take them through the San Cristobel wash and south of Ajo Peak, to the Tohono O’odham reservation. The people there had rescued more than a few migrants from death in the desert. Not all of those they rescued were reported to the Border Patrol, either; the Tohono O’odham knew what it was like be split apart by a fence. Some of their kin lived on the other side.

They got a short break at sunrise, among a scattering of saguaro that would hide them from distant eyes. Ines took a hat from her bag, then slipped her hand back in, hunting by touch, until she found the rubber-banded tin tucked inside her one clean shirt. She waited until the coyotes were looking elsewhere, then shifted the tin into her pocket, where she could reach it more quickly.

A scuff of foot against stone made her jump. The older man held up calming hands, then crouched at her side and murmured, “Miguel.”

“Ines,” she murmured back, keeping a wary eye on the coyotes.

“You seem well prepared.”

The practiced lie rose easily to her lips. “My brother crossed a few years ago. Gave me some advice.”

He smiled. “Brothers are like that.”

Eduardo had given her advice, when she showed up on his doorstep in Cuauhtemoc. Much of it had involved swearing. Not that he doubted what Ines had to say; Mother had once sent him out into the desert, too, as she had later done with Ines. But he thought she should let it go. Or let someone else take care of it—as if that had done any good yet.

And she owed Javier too much to let it go.

“If an old man can give you advice, too,” Miguel said, even quieter than before, “watch out for that one.” He made a tiny gesture toward El Rojo. “He’s got his eye on you. But not in the usual way.”

Ines’ fingers tightened on her backpack. “What do you mean?”

Miguel shook his head. “I don’t know. The big one, he wants what you’d expect, but the leader … he’s watching you for something.”

For what, Ines wanted to ask—but El Rojo rose smoothly to his feet, and they had to follow. It wasn’t a question Miguel could likely answer, anyway.