"We Are Not From Here" by Jenny Torres Sanchez, Parts 4–5

This is the hell route, I remind myself. My notes flash in my mind.
And this must be purgatory.
I suddenly wonder if we have died, too.

Hours later we are in a field near tracks that veer off to the right sharply.

When the lush landscapes disappear, I feel a spiteful kind of satisfaction. As we ride through land that is ugly and drying and without any color, I look over at Pequeña and want to say, Yes, dreams are stupid.

We look exactly like the mummies this beast makes of everyone, as we stumble off the train, walk away unsteady and limping, in a desert haze and stupor.

And something fills my chest and I want both to whisper thank you and hurl rocks at the unfeeling murderous thing. I’m afraid to open my mouth, afraid of the sounds that might escape me, the emotions that might erupt and flow over me like scathing lava.

Ahead, there’s a stand selling backpacks, canteens, first aid kits.

The guy yanks on the dog’s collar, yelling at him, giving him a command that compels him to release Pulga.

And we follow the priest out, back through the maze of underground offices, back up the stairs, into the sanctuary, where Pulga stares at the altar with a few flickering candles as we pass by.

"You know, sometimes you have bad luck on this trip, that’s all. You can’t expect to come out of it unscathed. But you have to keep going.”

He is short and corpulent and his voice sounds strained, like it gets stuck in his fleshy neck.

We walk, following each other, in a kind of silence that feels intimate, in a place that feels holy. Where we can almost hear each other’s thoughts and dreams and fears and prayers.

We cover miles, we cover hours, we cover night by lying, tricking, manipulating ourselves.

He’s taking these deep, spastic breaths that sound terrible and ominous and loud in this small space.

The coyote looks remorseful, but still, the next words that come out of his mouth break me.

I’d brought him to my room, and lifted my mattress and showed him all my stupid notes on how to get to the United States. All the notes I’d been keeping and hoarding and no one knew about.

Thoughts flit in and out quicker than I can catch them, and I keep walking.

But then over there, Chico begins to convulse, and blood comes out of his mouth as he falls.

My ears go mute at first and then are at full volume again as the blurry figure talks its warbled talk.

I run faster—over brush and squat dry bushes, over boulders and rocks. Past rocks stacked high.

We pull up to another building, also sand-colored, with rounded edges that look eroded by wind.

I stare into the night until everything goes dark, until all I can do is listen to my breathing. Each breath is raspy, but it calms me, listening to the inhale. The exhale. Even as I wonder which breath will be my last.

They beckon me and I feel myself following them.

I am reaching for him, and this time, I grab hold of his arm. I pull it so tight, just before he falls. But it detaches from his body, like a prosthetic limb, and it becomes light in my hand as the rest of him, the weight of him, falls to the ground.

And I hear him screaming as he is chewed up by the train, as I hold that disembodied arm in my hands.

It is the sound of someone clambering up wooden walls, splinters piercing the skin under bleeding fingernails.

It's a flower bud and I watch as it opens up, as luminous petals unfurl.

It's a flower bud and I watch as it opens up, as luminous petals unfurl.

I keep count of the days by the meals they give us. Oats and tepid water for breakfast. Soups from packets for lunch. Sandwiches with a slice of cheese for dinner.

When he comes back, my backpack is in his gloved hand. It looks like an old relic. An unearthed artifact, taken from another life.

When he comes back, my backpack is in his gloved hand. It looks like an old relic. An unearthed artifact, taken from another life.