My rucksack ripped from my shoulders, I feel his heavy body replace it, pressing tight against my back. The man is three times my size, his hairy arms locked around me like unbreakable shackles. I can’t move an inch.
Panic takes over. My vision flickers in and out of focus as I struggle to grasp hold of a plan—any plan at all—to get us out of this. Two men drag my sister and Lucía at knifepoint in front of me, and my vision narrows.
Mira!
Our eyes lock for a single agonizing moment. I watch—immobile, useless—as my sister fights against the arms that bind her. She pushes and pulls with all the strength she possesses. But it’s not enough. The brutish man who holds her just smiles, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement.
“You don’t have to put on a show, pretty,” he mocks. “You’ve already got my attention.”
He drags his lips across her cheek, and a powerful rage ignites inside my chest. The decoy child resumes his pathetic crying somewhere outside the circle.
“Shut that kid up,” my assailant demands. His relaxed, even voice expects to be obeyed. He must be the ringleader.
Holding Mira’s rucksack, a teenager with a shaved head approaches the child. Taking a large gulp of our water, he briefly pats the boy’s shoulder and drops a handful of our nopales to the ground. The boy quiets his howling and greedily dives for them.
Lucía doesn’t struggle against her captor. The older boy—who looks like a starving blonde bull with a silver ring through his septum—rips through her pockets without resistance. She just stands there, eyes closed, lips mumbling incoherent words under her breath.
“He’s not listening, mamí—whoever you’re praying to.” Her captor laughs loudly and sucks on one of the nopales he took from her pocket, the juice trickling down his chin.
My assailant ignores him and runs his hands down my body in his own search, his fingers lingering under the waistline of my pants. He finds the map—shit—and pockets it.
“What else do you have hidden down there?” he asks me, caressing the top of my underwear.
I jerk forward angrily and see my sister’s captor slip his filthy hands underneath the collar of her shirt to grope her breasts.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like the way he’s touching her?” my captor taunts, cupping my cheek gently. He blows his sour breath against my neck and slides his calloused hands along the curves of my body, stopping between my legs.
“Is this how you like it?” he whispers in my ear.
Every part of my body—my entire being—recoils against his touch. I snap my head away from his mouth and see Mira’s captor kissing her neck while she struggles to escape. But all she can do is close her eyes.
Fire burns hot in my belly, spreading into my limbs, making me feel dangerous and powerful. He needs to take his hands off my sister now. If he doesn’t, I won’t be able to stop my heel from plowing into my captor’s groin, freeing myself to tear the smile from his face with my bare hands. Screw not having a weapon. My rage is my weapon.
That will do nothing for her. He’ll cut your throat first.
The brute comes up for air. “Hey, Carlos, this girl kinda looks like that bitch the Guard is after.”
Mira attempts to keep her head low, but his dirty fingers grab her chin, forcing her to expose her full face.
No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .
My protest bubbles hopelessly into my throat—it’s me, not her!—when I’m shoved roughly to the teenage boy. The back of my head collides painfully with the binoculars he has raised to his face, stolen from Mira’s bag. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me, but his grip lacks the eagerness shared by his cohorts.
Carlos scrutinizes Mira’s grimy, sunburnt face. Her lips tremble uncontrollably above the blade at her throat as the man carefully takes in the black eyeliner smudged across her cheeks, the cropped blonde hair, and the wrong-colored eyes.
“I’m not that girl,” Mira says, her voice soft but firm.
With alarming speed, Carlos serves a brutal punch to her stomach. “I didn’t say you could speak,” he growls.
Mira bowls over, painfully gasping for air.
“It’s not her,” he says, certain. “Let’s go.” He turns away, dismissing Mira.
“Can we still keep her?” Mira’s captor asks. “I think mine likes me.”
“No!” Mira and I scream in unison. I battle hard against the teenager’s arms.
Mira’s captor turns to the teenager with a sadistic grin, taking joy in our cries. The boy hangs his head, refusing to join in. I drive my head up, forcing the teen to meet my eyes. Help us, they plead, but I can see in one glance he’s just as helpless as I was in the city square watching that woman get tasered over bottled water. He won’t save us.
“You can have her. But don’t expect me to feed her,” Carlos says, placing my rucksack on his shoulders. “We’re done here. Leave the others.”
The brute grabs hold of Mira and turns to follow his ringleader, ripping my sister away from me.
“Mira!”
Unleashing a deep, savage roar, Mira fights, thrashing and kicking, to get back to me. We’re dragged farther and farther apart, our screams becoming violent cries as we continue to wildly claw out for each other. But she’s slipping away from me. My heart breaks free from its ribbed cage inside my chest and flees to her side, where it belongs.
I’ll find you again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Without warning the sharp blast of a gunshot cuts through the air, and everything goes still.
Then the wailing of the child and the ringing echo of the bullet overwhelm me, and I clasp my hands to my ears, disoriented. From the corner of my eye, I see Carlos drop hard to the ground, the moment prolonged and distant. He clutches his upper back, dark crimson coating his frenzied hands, trying to stop the bleeding, his throat producing horrifying noises in his great effort to breathe.
Oh God, he’s going to die.
Lost in a haze of shock, I look from his hemorrhaging body to the gun still raised in Lucía’s steady hands.
She turns her concentration to the leaderless gang of bandits and aims her cocked pistol at each of them, daring them to move. Fear spreads clear and contagious across their faces. Her assailant backs slowly away in disbelief, both hands clutching his bleeding nose. The teenager loosens his grasp on me, and I rip his arms from my body. But the brute doesn’t let go of Mira.
He glares at Lucía, calculating if he should charge. She points the gun at his head, the tip of her index finger tightening on the trigger. The man backs down, reluctantly releasing his grip on Mira. She bursts free of him, stumbling to the ground.
I rush to my sister, falling into the dirt by her side, lost in a whirlwind of dust and emotion. I lock my arms around her, tight enough to bruise. My mind frantic, I grab her hand and she grabs mine. We lift each other up and scramble behind Lucía, behind the power of the gun.
“No nos sigan,” Lucía warns, backing away from the men. Do not follow.
Together the three of us disappear into the night.
MIRA
My feet are a hundred pounds each. I watch them as they rise and fall, one after the other, two leaden boots dragging me across the dead grasslands of their own volition. I wonder idly what keeps them going.
My mind is full of air. The strong Panhandle winds have finally made their way inside me, and I am hollow. Numb. I no longer feel the stab of pain from my poorly healed ankle, no longer feel the fiery sear from the cold-hearted sun.
But those hands.
I can still feel those hands.
And the gun.
I will always feel the echo of the gunshot that saved me from the void.