Chapter 10

Day two passed with little to break the monotony—just the steady rhythm of feet over dirt, the occasional shuffle of a loose shoe, a cough here, a murmur there. It was the kind of day that blurred into itself, where your mind started to drift unless you forced it not to.

The girls kept close to Doña Mari, walking at a pace that was just fast enough to keep the caravan from swallowing them whole, but slow enough not to abandon her. Watching her was both inspiring and heartbreaking. She had to be in pain. Her movements were stiff, labored, but she never let out a complaint. Her jaw was set, and her eyes stayed fixed ahead. I don’t know what was keeping her going—pride, desperation, love for that boy—but it was fierce.

That evening, after we settled down on our blankets and tried to pretend the rocks beneath us weren’t bruising every joint, Luz leaned in and whispered to me.

“She knows,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Doña Mari?”

She nodded. “She hasn’t said it directly, but she’s too sharp not to know. We’re not like the others. Not exactly.”

I looked over at the older woman. She sat with her grandson, gently rubbing his back while he dozed, her eyes scanning the horizon with quiet vigilance.

“She said something interesting,” Luz continued. “She told us—if anyone asks where we’re from, don’t make up too much detail. Just say it was a small town that’s gone now. That’s enough.”

Smart. Real smart. That kind of advice came from experience. I filed it away.

Luz also told me about someone new—Marcelo Ortega. I’d noticed him in passing, this tall, wiry guy with kind eyes and a tired face. He moved easily among people, always respectful, always listening more than talking. Apparently, he’d been a schoolteacher in Honduras. The gangs had wanted to use his school to recruit boys, and when he said no, they made him pay for it. Beat him within an inch of his life, then promised worse. He fled with nothing but his name and what was left of his dignity.

“He’s smart,” Luz said. “And good. People trust him.”

“He speaks English?”

“A little. Enough. You’d like him.”

I smiled at her. “Too bad I’m Ukrainian.”

That earned a quiet chuckle. She rested her head on my shoulder for a moment. The night was cooling fast, the sky that deep indigo just before the stars burned through. All around us, the quiet murmur of exhausted bodies trying to sleep. No one had the energy for much more.

It had been a long, uneventful day. But something told me the real tests were still ahead.

Day three started off the way the last one ended—quiet, steady, just more dirt under our feet and sun on our backs. Luz and I walked side by side, our heads bowed low like everyone else’s, but our voices kept low and easy. We weren’t talking about survival or danger or escape plans. Just ... normal stuff. Mundane, peaceful stuff. Maybe it was a little self-preservation—if we acted like we weren’t afraid, maybe it would feel true for a little while.

She told me more about her plans for when we got back. She wanted to work, of course, help out at home, see her relatives again. But I could hear something else in her voice—a tension, like she was dancing around what she really wanted to say.

“You miss writing,” I said.

She gave me a bright smile. “Every single day.”

“Then write,” I said. “Start a blog. Or something. Tell these stories. Or tell different ones. People will read them.”

She laughed softly. “You really think so?”

“I’d read them,” I said. “Hell, I want to read everything you’ve ever written. All of it. Even the cheesy stuff you probably buried in a drawer.”

That made her blush a little. “There’s a lot,” she said. “Journals, poems, half-finished stories. Some of it’s not ... good.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I want to know all of it. Every piece of who you are.”

We were still smiling at each other when the pickup truck came into view.

It wasn’t moving fast—at first. Just creeping along the edge of the caravan like it was inspecting cattle. Tinted windows. No license plate. No reason to be here, not unless it meant trouble.

The truck slowed down. Nearly stopped.

The hush that fell over the caravan wasn’t dramatic. It was worse—it was practiced. Automatic. Like everyone here had lived this moment before.

My skin prickled. Every instinct told me not to look up, not to draw attention. But I did, just briefly, and I saw Luz doing the same.

The truck lingered one more second ... then peeled off, throwing up a cloud of dust behind it.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

Somewhere behind us, a man muttered a single word under his breath.

“Halcones.”

I looked at Luz.

She turned to me, voice barely above a whisper. “Lookouts,” she said. “Scouts for the cartel. They report back.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. We both knew what that meant. We weren’t alone out here—not really. We were being watched. Judged. Measured.

And maybe marked.

After that truck passed, something shifted.

The change was subtle at first—just a few people quickening their pace, checking over their shoulders. Then it became undeniable. The whole caravan surged forward like a school of fish sensing a predator nearby. No one said it out loud, but we all knew. The halcones had seen us. Someone was watching.

I could feel the tension crawling under my skin. Every step kicked up a little more dust, and every mile felt like we were walking with a countdown over our heads.

And then we saw it—people peeling off. Not many, just a few. But enough to notice. They didn’t say goodbye, didn’t explain. They just veered away, off the path, disappearing into the brush or ducking down side trails. And that was more disturbing than if they’d screamed and run. It meant they knew something. Or feared something. Maybe they were already marked.

Not long after that, a woman I’d never seen before—short, wiry, with tight eyes—drifted up to Luz and gave me a look like she was trying to solve a riddle.

”¿Y él?” she asked. ”¿De dónde es?”

I didn’t need the words to know she was asking about me. I felt Luz stiffen beside me.

Before she could answer, Marcelo Ortega strolled by like he wasn’t listening at all—just a guy passing through.

“Yo tenía un primo que parecía sueco y hacía las mejores pupusas del pueblo,” he said with a shrug and a grin.

The woman scowled, mumbled something, and moved on.

I looked to Luz for a translation.

“He said, ‘I had a cousin who looked Swedish and still made the best pupusas in town.’” She gave a soft, surprised laugh. “I think he was trying to cover for you.”

I looked ahead at Marcelo’s back. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge us again. But I felt a pang of gratitude. There was something solid in that guy. Quiet, but loyal. The kind of man you want near you when things go sideways.

But it wasn’t all good news.

The faster pace was hitting some people hard, especially Doña Mari. She was panting, her gait uneven, and young Andres looked like he didn’t know whether to hold her up or push her forward. Luz and Isa had started walking with them, each taking a side.