Excerpt 1
I know exactly how chingón my father was. One day I was turning the soil using one of his white bulls to pull the plow. I wanted to do my job and make my father proud. When the old bull hurt his hip, it let out a loud moan. Papá knew the sound well and ran up to me, thrashing me with a stick. He ripped the flesh off of my collarbone, making a purple mark that has stained my skin ever since. The way it bulged, you’d think he stuffed a dead worm in there in case I ever starved.

Our goats let out a cry, as if my thoughts reminded them of the old bull. I never thought animals actually understood our language, but it always seemed like they knew what was going on anyway. Martín mumbled something. It was all distraction, and I needed as many distractions as I could get right now. My duffel bag was annoying me.

See, I was only thirteen back then, with the old bull. My father never stopped hitting. I guess ripping me up that day wasn’t enough. I remember the thud against my head and how everything went black. I don’t know if that stopped him. All I know was that Martín found me. He said he thought I was dead. He put some medical alcohol under my nose. When I finally woke up, he told me to stay there until my father calmed down. He went and told my mother where I was so she wouldn’t worry too much. It was already getting dark, but no one came to get me. I couldn’t wait any longer, so I started back home. I struggled to walk, but I remember wondering, what did this man do to me? Once I got back, it was pitch-black, and it looked like Father didn’t make a fire, so I slept under the sala’s planks to not make a fuss. My sister woke me up before the work started that day. Everyone saw my swollen face, but no one dared ask me what happened, not even my mother. My younger siblings just stared. And my father, he ignored me, went to train the new bull with Martín’s father. Like my uncle told me, you can pick the animals, the fruits, and the vegetables, but you get the father you get and that’s it.

The truth was, sometimes everybody was annoying. Even when I heard my siblings chew their food. But that didn’t mean I didn’t love them. It’s odd how you can hate and love people.

My goat stopped.

I tugged on him to keep walking. On this dirt road with my cousin and these stolen goats, I felt alone and empty. I wish I could hear my mother singing Cielito Lindo like she did sometimes from the kitchen.

• Ay, ay, ay, ay,
• canta y no llores,
• porque cantando se alegran,
• cielito lindo, los corazones.

Her voice faded away as my desire for the end of this walk increased. I’d rather travel around on a horse. We had walked before to Arteaga, and it took around six hours, but with the goats stopping and starting, it was going to take longer. And the longer we took, the more chance there was we’d be caught by my father or Adal. If Adal, then—

An irritating squeak assaulted my eardrums. I winced. Martín looked at me, his eyes widening. I felt mine do the same. Sweat covered my face. I turned around, but the sun was too bright. I squinted at the bouncing red shape, hypnotized. I didn’t know where to hide. One side of the mountain was a cliff, and the other side was almost straight up from when they cut it to make the road.

I could barely breathe. Adal drove a red truck! My heart tried to spring out of my chest through my throat. I looked up and prayed, “Please be someone else.” Even my father would be better. Adal’s one of those guys you don’t test your luck with. If he said you worked for him, you couldn’t leave. There’s only two ways to quit working with him: natural death or painful death.

As the red shape neared us, I could tell it was a beat-up pickup. Adal only drove new ones. Inside, I started to calm. We moved out of the road, but the truck stopped. The dust cloud made us cough and cover our eyes. Martín nudged me. Why me? My cousin always acts like the boss because he is a couple months older.

I approached the rusty red truck, and a stench hit me that made the mornings of cleaning pig poop seem like nothing.

Excerpt 2
“Where you headed?”

“Arteaga,” I said. My cousin nodded.

The driver looked at our goats. “I’m going past there, but you have to sit in the back. I like my privacy.”

His smile revealed gaps where teeth used to live. Most people put gold in their mouths, but not him. I peeked into the truck as I walked to the back. The man was filthy. On the ranch, we bathed once a week, and Mamá made sure we washed up daily, sometimes making us change our clothes two or three times.

But he looked like his ranch had no access to water. His shirt was white with areas of dark yellow. It had dry, ancient sweat patches that had torn long ago, letting his white belly flesh poke out, proving it never saw the sun like his arms did. His stomach pressed against the steering wheel. I wasn’t sure how he got in there or if he ever left, since the inside had trash everywhere, even on the seat next to him. I was just grateful he didn’t ask us to sit inside.

Martín looked inside too, but, polite like always, he thanked him for the ride.

But after walking with these goats for a couple of hours, I had had enough. Anything was easier on me than being reminded of every step of the journey. It wasn’t the effort that annoyed me. It was the fact that I didn’t want anyone to catch up to us. So, we loaded the goats and settled in. The hard metal felt like a reward for not jumping off the cliff.

I was getting away, and my life was about to start. The roadside white box with the Virgen de Guadalupe inside would appear soon. We were at the midpoint. No position made my butt feel better on this bouncy road, but by truck, it was a half hour; by foot, it would’ve been at least three hours. I made the sign of the cross as we passed the Virgin and then prayed for her to guide us on this journey, make it safe, and to take care of my family. And then I looked back as far as I could. No one else on the road. I was surprised my uncle wasn’t chasing down his firstborn. The best part was that Adal wasn’t in his truck tracking us down because he would’ve been shooting. He wouldn’t care about killing all of us, would just steal this old truck, and cook the goats.

Adal shot Javier in front of me and Martín. For talking too much to us. I never dared to ask if that was the real reason. You don’t ask people like Adal anything, because you might owe him after the answer. He told us we had to take over his growing operation. Adal gave us a month; basically, after everyone found out Javier was dead, so Adal’s month could’ve been a day. He said if we told anyone what we saw, he’d kill everyone we told, and anyone they told. He knew we didn’t have a gun.

I wanted to tell Papá, but didn’t. He was more than capable of defending our family, though. When I was little, alone with my two siblings, this black pig with horns cornered us by a tree. We didn’t know what to do, and I froze. I could hear the beast breathing and preparing to charge at us, to make us its dinner or just kill us, I wasn’t sure. Everything moved in slow motion. I couldn’t breathe. I heard crunching leaves, then silence. And like a bat surprising you as it flies out of a corner, my father appeared with his knife out. He tackled the beast yelling for Miguel to help him. Me and my younger sister, Chamélea, stayed still. As the beast and my father struggled with each other, I saw him hold his knife away from its horns. Miguel stomped on the beast’s head. My sister turned away, screaming. I stared. It ended so fast. Father stabbed the beast in the heart as Miguel used his body to pin it. The blood was all over my father’s shirt. The smell of the pig’s breath filled my nose. It panted until it had nothing left, only the stench of what its body had been. Papá wiped his blade on his pants and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “A cada puerco le llega su sábado.” Ever since then, he has always carried a gun.

Excerpt 3
We left. And after a few steps, a light breeze magnified the reek of the streets and made me wish for a whiff of fresh ranch air. Maybe I should have asked the guy about the yellow house with the phones, but part of me wanted to find the house without his help.

Soon I heard voices telling stories about talking with faraway loved ones. I’d never witnessed this type of excitement. The future felt borderless. When I saw a sign above a yellow house’s door, I knew it must have said this place was filled with phones.

We walked inside. There were so many sounds! I had no idea where to go, but I headed to the counter anyway. A woman directed me to the wall of phones. I stood and stared with a smile, trying not to look like I’d never used one before. I followed her every move, but I couldn’t believe I was about to speak to Miguel in Los Angeles. ¡Imagínate! Martín stood beside me as I held the phone next to my ear and mouth, mimicking everyone around me doing the same.

Each telephone made the user feel different. Some people cried. Others stared at the ground. Disappointment covered most faces as they put the phone back on the blue wall. There were some who looked happier than anyone I’d ever seen. Many seemed puzzled like me. All because of the avocado-green phones held to their faces.

“What country are you calling?” she asked.

With my chin up, I said, “Los Estados Unidos.”

She grinned. “Do you have the phone number?”

I reached into my pocket and then undid the tight folds.

She looked at the paper and, without asking permission, spun a dial, making a quick ticking sound. It came from her finger when it moved the circular noisemaker. She pointed at the phone, and to my amazement, a ringing sound entered my ear. It was odd, but I adjusted and turned to my cousin while pointing to the phone. He looked over; his hope was as intense as mine. The ringing became muffled and then it was gone.

A man answered. “¿Bueno?”

It didn’t sound like my brother, but who else could it be? My excitement was heavier than when I got new Levi’s. “Miguel! How are you? It’s your brother, Sino.” I turned to Martín with a smile. This was the best feeling, knowing I had information about America he could never possess. He looked at me with wide eyes.

“He’s not here right now.” The voice in my ear sounded irritated and slurred. “But if you want, I can give him a message.”

Excerpt 4
An old bus rested beside the Arteaga station. I’d never been on a bus alone, and neither had my cousin. There was a sign, a big white paper. The words must have said it was waiting for us.

There was a vendor selling sandwiches; she was set up right next to the station. She was a genius! Everybody would want a bunch of sandwiches before they got on the bus. My cousin and I went over there and bought some. Each one had chili, ham, mayonnaise, and cheese. They made my lips sting, and I was loving it. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I could hear Martín sniffling from the spice as we ate two each. Afterward my stomach hurt, but I would be full for the rest of the night.

My cousin waited outside as I went to speak to the ticket lady. When I asked her where the bus was going, she didn’t look up.

She studied her newspaper. “Morelia. Can’t you read?”

I looked at the sign, acted like I was reading it, wondering why I didn’t notice the sign said where the bus was headed. Then again, it could have said anything; how was I supposed to know? I can’t read, lady.

“Thought that was for later.”

She closed her eyes, groaned, and then looked up without moving her head. “Do you want to buy tickets? We’re busy.” But only flies were in the room.

“Two.” I stopped myself from telling her we were going to El Norte.

She handed me the tickets after I gave her the pesos. We were ready to begin our journey to the land of pickup trucks and hamburgers. Tío Víctor said a restaurant named Madonna’s had food like nothing I’d ever tasted. I couldn’t wait!

Martín ran inside! Was it Adal? I knew we took too long! Then through his breaths, he told me the bus had started its engine.

The woman snapped her newspaper in front of her face, and then she mumbled, “Pinche rancheros.”

We entered the bus, greeted by a new scent, kind of like dust. It tickled my nose, but I held my sneeze in. It must be the scent of travel. Everyone was in there. Indigenous people with huge plastic bowls. Families with curious children. Men with fancy sombreros. Sleeping elders. And us, two guys headed to a place everyone dreamed about. I nodded at no one and everyone. Adal is never going to find us now.