Then he laughed softly. His voice sounded so odd—so out of time and place.
His thirst quenched, he rolled up his torn and dirtied pants and cooled his feet and ankles in the stream. He sat back, allowing time for the water to make him feel that he’d done a little something to improve his lot. Then he realized that his face was probably filthy and grass-stained, and he twisted around to wash it the best he could; the water felt wonderful.
At last, he got to his feet. He figured he’d follow the stream—at the least he’d have fresh water all day.
He found another sturdy—if crooked—branch that he could use as a cane; it helped. It helped a great deal.
He made his way along for another half hour.
He prayed that the men in blue suits would not come then. He wouldn’t be capable of running.
As the sun rose overhead, he began to tire. He’d found water—the true necessity—but with his ankle twisted, every movement was arduous.
He thought again that if the men in blue came back, he was in serious trouble. But there was no sign of them.
There was no sign of anyone at all.
Toward the afternoon, he felt as if the world before him was beginning to grow wavy. He was hungry—it had been some time since he had really eaten—and his head was throbbing. By now, more than his ankle hurt—everything in his body seemed to be burning.
He sat down by the stream again, drinking, wetting his face. His legs dangling into the water from a little rock ledge, he leaned back, closing his eyes.
He thought he dreamed again at first—not about wars and bombs and dying men, but laughter.
The laughter of a child.
He opened his eyes. The sun was beginning to set. Looking up, at first he saw just rays of colorful light, and he had to blink against them.
For a moment, in the glare, he saw a woman. The light dazzled around her.
Angel, he thought. I’m dead at last.
She was there in the light, and the child was at her side, and they beamed down at him with mischief in their eyes.
A cloud moved in the sky or the sun shifted. The glare was gone. The sound of the laughter was real.
He struggled up to an elbow. His head still hurt—the world was still blurred. But down the stream, there were children playing. They were real. A boy of about seven was hopping over worn stones in the stream. The little girl seemed to be about five—she was laughing and following her brother.
Their laughter. It was so beautiful.
He heard a man’s voice; he wasn’t sure of the Portuguese, but he could hear the tone. The man was chastising his son—he shouldn’t be encouraging his sister to do something that she might not be old enough to do.
Then he saw the man, who was coming around a slight bend in the stream. He had a bag over his shoulder and River realized he’d been out collecting something. The man had on a worn denim work shirt and jeans; he appeared to be in his forties with a weatherworn face.
The little boy called out suddenly. He’d seen River.
River tried to stumble to his feet. He fell.
As the man rushed over to him, he couldn’t help but feel fear. He couldn’t run; he couldn’t do any of the evasive tactics he had learned.
He was trapped and cornered.
The children reached him first. They called out in friendly voices, curious, he thought, to see a stranger lying there in the stream.
He tried to speak; no words came.
The man reached him and hunkered down by him, looking concerned. He fired off a rapid question in his native language.
River tried to say something; he tried to form words in either English of Portuguese. He finally managed English. “I’m okay—I’m resting. I’m an American—just taking a walk,” he said lamely.
The man shook his head, telling River something. He helped him to his feet.
River hadn’t been ready to stand. He nearly fell. The man caught him. River tried to thank him and tell him that he was all right.
The little boy suddenly spoke to him. “He says you’re not all right. You come with us.”
“You speak English?” River said, relieved.
“They teach it in school and my uncle married an American girl,” he said, grinning and showing a mouthful of teeth. “I’ve been to San Diego!” he said proudly.
“That’s great,” River said. “Thank you. Please—tell your father that I’m all right, really. I wanted to see more of the country so I decided to walk, er, rather than take the train. And I fell.” It was almost the truth.
The man said something rapidly. The boy responded. The little girl just looked up at River with wide eyes. He had to smile. She stirred something in his heart. Something beautiful—and something painful too.
The little boy looked at River. “My father says that no good Christian could let you go on as you are. You come with us. We have a little farm just on the other side of the stream. Papa will help you—and my mama will take care of you. And you must eat.”
“Oh, no, no, thank you. That is so kind. But I could not impose upon you that way.”
The child spoke to the man again. The man looked at River as if he were crazy.
The man spoke; the child grinned and told River, “You will hurt him greatly if you don’t let us help you. He’ll be really offended.”
He could barely stand, River knew. He was going to fall again. He was starving—and if the men in blue suits did stumble upon him now, well, he might as well be dead.
He had little choice.
He looked at the man. “Obrigado,” he whispered.
The man nodded. “Guillermo,” he told him awkwardly, trying to introduce himself. “O meu nome é Guillermo. Este é Juanito,” he said, patting his son on the head. “Esta é Anna,” he said, pulling his daughter gently to him.
The boy rolled his eyes. “I’m almost eight,” he told River. “I am Juanito to them because my grandfather is Juan too. But, por favor, when you talk to me, Juan will be just fine.”
*
River gave his own name, and Juan started to laugh.
Guillermo wanted to know what was so funny. His son explained that River’s name translated to Rio. Guillermo laughed too. River shrugged; Guillermo patted him on the back and offered him his arm to lean on.
River looked at the ground worriedly. His backpack was there.
“Juanito, por favor,” Guillermo said, and Juanito, struggling only a little, picked up the pack with everything River had in the world.
“Obrigado,” he told Juan.
He realized as he went with the family and they made their laborious way around the bend that he was lucky—he wouldn’t have made it on his own.
When they rounded the little bend, River saw cows grazing in a pasture and in the distance, a little farmhouse.
There seemed to be nothing else there—not as far as the eye could see.
No men in blue suits.
He allowed himself to be helped along. Guillermo was a strong man and took a lot of the weight off his injured ankle. It was slow going.