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A los que han cruzadoA los que han elegido irseA los que han buscado una vida mejorYo te veo y te levanto. It always began at night, when You had disappeared.And when You were gone, we came alive.I am Your cuentista, Solís. I had been raised to take the stories of others,and return them to You in ritual.But I had none of my own.I also ran away. I left behind Empalme. Mi familia. You. Myself. And Iran.I should have spoken to You long ago, but I couldn’t.I needed to be free. And I’m not sorry.So let me tell You a story, Solís. We met the others at nightfall on the western side of Empalme, past thesquare and beyond the well. It was where Julio and his men had made theircamp over a month ago. We ignored them as we passed, but I could seethem watching us as we went by, the fire lighting up their dour, bitter faces.But they said nothing, did nothing, and we joined the rest of the celebration.Rogelio was there and already drunk, strumming his guitar dramaticallywhile two women harmonized over it all, their voices a complicated danceof melody and sadness. They sang of leaving their husbands behind andmaking the journey across the endless desert together. “Montamos juntos ynos hacemos uno,” Amada sang, almost laughing as she made eye contactwith her novia, Carmita.They were not the only sound in the clearing, as most of los aldeanoswere spread around an enormous central fire. This was a celebration of ourlives, of surviving another day in the scorched and unbearable world thatYou left for us. A respite from Your harsh stare. Even without You in the sky, though, las estrellas were many, were brilliant, and they cast a glowover all.I weaved through the crowd, holding the basket out, offering our tortillasfor others. I had helped Mamá make them earlier that evening as You set inthe west. We had formed a line behind our home, my parents and I, with mybrother, Raúl, at the end, working as the earthy scent of the first burningcoals floated up to my nose. Mamá made her tortillas thick and crispyaround the edges, la masa blooming into a savory taste on the tongue. Shekissed Papá, ran her fingers through his long hair, then yelled at Raúl, whohad let one of the tortillas linger on the heat for too long.It was an important part of our daily ritual. We all took something to ourvillage gatherings. None of it was sold; this was our offering to one another.La señora Sánchez came with her guisado de cabra, and I could smell thespices from across the clearing as she filled bowls with the hot, savory stew.People greeted one another, perhaps not so loudly as usual—our voicesthick with increasing worry since Julio’s arrival in Empalme.But we were still here, still alive, and this tradition had lasted for many,many years, since long before I was born. At night, there was a great senseof freedom, but as was usually the case for me, it came at a cost. I hadalready made my way to the other side of the fire, greeting Lani and Omar,when Rogelio stumbled over, nearly crashing into me. “Cuentista,cuentista,” he slurred.I saw Lani roll her eyes at me. Rogelio was always like this.“Cuentista, I need you.”“I know,” I said, exhausted. “But not now. It is barely nightfall.”“I will find you later,” he said, smiling, a dribble of spit slipping out ofthe corner of his mouth.“I’m sure you will,” I muttered.Lani reached a hand out. “We do appreciate you, Xochitl,” she said, herlight eyes reflecting the fire behind me. “Don’t worry about him. As long ashe’s talking to you, we’ll all be fine.”I nodded at her, but bit back what I wanted to say. Everyone would befine; she was right about that. I watched Lani laugh at something Omar hadsaid, and the thought raced through me: But am I going to be fine?Something bumped into my leg, and I looked down to see the woodencart belonging to la señora Sánchez, a large metal pot of guisado de cabra in the back. “Disculpe, Xochitl,” she said, and she waved at me with herwooden arm, the one she got in Obregán after she’d lost the one she’d beenborn with. “Would you help me for a bit?”I smiled at her. I liked la señora Sánchez, and enjoyed her stories of herearly days in Empalme, but what I liked most about her was that she neverlied to me. “Sure,” I told her, and I took hold of the cart and pulled it afterher. She greeted the other aldeanos, offered them el guisado, and thenmoved on.I kept up as best as I could, saying hello to those gathered around thefire, but otherwise remaining silent. When Ofelia came to get a bowl, shenearly tripped over me. “Didn’t see you there,” she said, then turned back tola señora Sánchez without another word to me. There weren’t many of us inEmpalme—we were so far from Obregán to the north and Hermosillo to thesouth—but most people treated me as Ofelia did. They rarely saw me unlessthey needed me, and I knew that as soon as Ofelia had to tell me a story,she’d be much kinder.Now, though, she was locked in conversation with la señora Sánchez,and I didn’t matter. “He’s going to start interfering with los mensajeros,”Ofelia insisted. “And I can’t have that. I’m waiting for some very importantmensajes from my family. I cannot have them delayed.”“Perhaps there are more pressing issues, Ofelia,” la señora Sánchez said,her mouth curling up in irritation. “Though I sympathize.”“What are we doing about Julio?” she demanded, as if la señora Sánchezhad said nothing at all. “Are we just letting him take over our well? What’snext? Our food?”Papá came up to stand beside me. “He’s only a bully,” he said. “We haveenough water that we can get on our own. We’ll just bore him until heleaves. Solís will protect the rest of us.”Like instinct, we all made the sign: our palms dragged across our eyes,then passing them down to our chest. A reminder to see the truth, to believethe truth. As long as we kept the truth in our hearts, as long as they allspoke it to me, we would be spared from Your wrath.But I made eye contact with la señora Sánchez, and she was not thrilledwith mi papá’s calm. She was scowling.I looked to Papá, uncertainty snaking up my spine. “But what if it getsworse?” I asked. “What if he does take more from us?”
