“Okay.”
“On three.”
He stood poised at the edge of the metal grate. She balanced her weight on the balls of her feet, pulse racing with adrenaline. “One. Two. Three!”
And then he flew into space, with her hurtling after him.
—
Armando decided not to steal another vehicle in Puerto Peñasco.
The town was too small. He couldn’t commit grand theft and disappear into the crowd. So he hit the road on foot and stuck out his thumb. His plan was to hitchhike east until he reached Santa Ana. Then he’d head south to Benjamín Hill, one of the last stops on the coastal route. If Sarai was still on the train, she’d show up there at some point.
This remote desert area wasn’t the best place to hitch a ride. He walked for an hour in the blazing heat with no luck. Ironically, the man in the Jesus car picked him up again. Armando didn’t have the luxury of refusing. He climbed into the passenger seat and stared straight ahead, tuning out the driver’s attempts to save his soul.
As the sun set over the parched earth, his thoughts turned dark. He hadn’t heard from Sarai. He felt dead inside. What if hewasdead and didn’t know it? He’d seen a movie like that once. Maybe he’d died behind that bush on the highway, like roadkill. Maybe this was purgatory, and the driver was taking him to hell. They hooked a right in Santa Ana, heading south.
The grim reaper collected two more souls from the side of the road. They were brothers from Guatemala, Temoc and Tonio. Armando spoke to them in their native language, which was the same as his mother’s. They said they’d boarded the wrong train and gone to Nogales instead of Tijuana. They had to return to Benjamín Hill and try again.
“How far to Benjamín Hill?” Armando asked the driver.
“Not far,” he said, sipping from an aluminum canteen. The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air. It was the cheapest rotgut you could buy.
Armando kept his eyes on the road, saying nothing. Who was he to tell this religious nomad not to drink and drive? They were close to their final destination.
The man’s behavior became more and more erratic as night fell. He told incoherent Bible stories, chugged booze, and drifted across lanes. He veered onto the shoulder several times. After a near head-on collision, Armando decided he’d had enough.
“Pull over. I want out.”
The man stepped on the gas, obstinate.
Armando showed him his fist. “Pull over, motherfucker. I’m not playing.”
“Just a minute,” he grumbled, sipping from his canteen. He slowed down, but only a little. Armando slid across the seat, stomped on the brake and grabbed the wheel. They screeched to an abrupt halt on the shoulder. A cloud of dust flew up around the vehicle. Armando turned off the ignition in disgust. He thought about shoving the drunk old man out the door and driving away. But the car was too recognizable, and it felt like a bad omen. He’d rather take his chances on foot.
“Go on, then,” the man yelled.
Armando opened the passenger door and exited the vehicle. Temoc and Tonio followed him. They seemed relieved to make an escape. The driver started the engine and took off again, swerving all over the road. Then he steadied the wheel and puttered away.
Unfortunately, they weren’t much safer outside the car than in it. Walking along the highway after dark attracted attention. Any passing patrol car would stop to investigate. Armando didn’t know how close they were to their destination, either.
Benjamín Hill was on the west side of the highway, so they headed that direction, away from the shoulder and deeper into the desert. The terrain was difficult to navigate without a full moon. There were boulders, sand-covered hills, and cactus groves at regular intervals. Burrs littered the ground, clinging to his sweatpants. Cactus needles penetrated the fabric. He’d have killed for some heavy denim.
“Do you have any other pants?” he asked.
Tonio was wearing two pairs of jeans, one on top of the other. He gave Armando his outer layer but refused payment. “You saved our lives.”
Temoc nodded his agreement.
Armando put on the jeans and kept walking, uncomfortable with their gratitude. He was uncomfortable, period. His wound ached from too much exertion. The dead animal stench grew stronger, almost as if his own flesh was rotting. He suspected that it was. His bandage needed to be changed. He felt like a zombie, lumbering forward on stiff legs.
Then the sun rose, and he could see where he was going again. That was a relief—until the temperature climbed to record levels. They stumbled upon a dirt road that ran alongside the tracks and followed it for several more miles.
“You don’t look so good,” Temoc said.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and admitted defeat. There was an acacia tree nearby. He stumbled toward it, desperate for shade. They shared a bottle of water. Then he removed his jacket and the rancid T-shirt. His bandage was wet with seepage. He tore it off and tossed it away. Both brothers grimaced as reddish fluid dribbled down his side.
“I can help,” Temoc told him, taking some supplies out of his backpack. He rinsed the wound with water and covered it with crushed herbs. Armando didn’t know if this native remedy would help, but it smelled nice. Temoc made a new bandage with a clean, folded sock and duct tape. “How’s that?”
