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? I took pride in being able to hide so much of myself from the others. Aside from Manolito, no one really knew about my desires. And no one knew about las poemas.
“I’m just tired,” I said, which wasn’t a lie, not after taking Rogelio’s story the night before.
Raúl smiled back, and then he began to work on filling the second bucket. While he did so, my mind took flight. I thought of las poemas, letting hope spring in me. I knew them both by heart, and the second one floated up from my memory, poured into my body, filling me with its power:
Este mundo de cenizas
no puede contenerme
No hay paredes
para detenerme
Soy libre.
This world of ashes
cannot contain me
There are no walls
to stop me
I am free.
By the time Raúl finished and the two of us began to haul those buckets back to filter the water, I was aching with desire for las poemas to be in my hand again. I knew I’d have to wait until no one was looking to get at them, but it was like a terrible itch spreading over my skin. I had to see them.
Raúl was talkative on the walk back, but I responded only occasionally, mostly to let him think I was paying attention. I wasn’t. I kept repeating the phrase in my head:
Soy libre. Soy libre. Soy libre.
I wanted it more than anything. To be free of these responsibilities and rules and expectations. I wanted my own life.
Mamá was trading chisme with Papá as he worked to prepare el almuerzo for us. She took the buckets and said that she was proud of how much water we’d gotten, that she’d filter out the dirt and the rocks in a few hours. She had too much to do before los viajeros arrived. She kissed me on the forehead. Told me she loved me. Papá blew another kiss my direction.
I loved them back. I really did. And yet, as I sat down on my sleeping roll, stretching out my legs and my arms, my fingers grazed over to the loose stone. I ran my fingers over the edge of it. Wiggled it a bit in its spot. No one was looking, so I quickly removed the stone, stuffed the little pouch in there, and then covered it again.
I lay back, exhaustion taking over me. I had to rest before I saw Lito that night. I needed to recuperate.
I needed to feel less isolated.
And I needed to know who wrote las poemas.
But I was all alone there in Empalme, with no hope of ever escaping it. I closed my eyes, and I could not wait for You to sink out of the sky, for las estrellas to return.
I saw Julio again that evening before I arrived at Manolito’s. I’d passed the home of la señora Sanchez, and the sun was a sliver on the horizon, glinting off the metal of her roof. I wasn’t paying attention, and then he just loomed there, seated atop an enormous brown horse.
He was lanky and tall enough as it was, but as he glared down at me, his patchy facial hair a shadow on his face, he was a giant. Unfathomable. Impossible. I had seen few horses in my life—they were too challenging to own and care for in a world so harsh—and so it made him look even bigger.
Yet here he was. It had been only a month since he and his men arrived in Empalme, but he filled the space left behind by all those who had traveled to the north or to the south for work or for a better life. There simply weren’t enough of us willing to make him leave anymore, not when he and his men carried such sharp sabers and knives.
I stilled when I saw him. He paused, only briefly, casting a wicked glance at me, up and down, and then I noticed her—