Los Cuatro
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 8
Marisol and Isa came jogging up the broken path behind the house, both soaked from the rain but grinning like kids who’d gotten away with something. Luz and I stood from where we’d been sitting on overturned buckets near the door. My pulse spiked. I could tell by Isa’s expression that she was up to something. That spark in her eye always meant news—usually good, occasionally chaos.
Turned out, this time it was the good kind.
“We’ve got a lot to tell you,” Isa said, brushing wet hair off her forehead.
“Let’s start with the important stuff,” Marisol cut in, lifting her injured hand. “Got this taken care of.”
I stepped forward immediately. “Really? Where?”
“There’s a tiny clinic about four blocks from here,” Isa said before Marisol could answer. “One woman inside. Super chill. Her name’s Camila. I told her my cousin had a wound, and she gave me some antibiotic cream—no questions, no hassle.”
Luz gave her an approving nod. “Way to go, Isa.”
I looked to Marisol’s hand—freshly cleaned, properly wrapped with real medical tape now. She gave me a sheepish little shrug. “Don’t give me credit. I wouldn’t have asked. Isa did it behind my back.”
“I do what I must,” Isa said with mock nobility, hand over her heart.
“Isa,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “You said you have a lot to tell us. That’s not it, is it?”
Isa grinned wider, her eyes dancing. “Oh, you just wait—there’s more. A lot more.”
She launched into the rest of the story—how while they were at the clinic, a guy showed up. Gas station employee, forties, named Rafael. Turned out, he was Camila’s husband. Isa struck up a conversation with Rafael. Learned that they have a twelve-year-old daughter named Sofia who’s been struggling with English at school.
“So, I told him,” Isa said, “hey, lucky day, I happen to know a wonderful young woman who can teach English like nobody’s business.”
She gestured grandly at Luz.
Luz blinked. “Wait—you volunteered me?”
“I’m sorry,” Isa said, “was I supposed to let the golden opportunity walk away?”
I looked at her, then at Luz, who just laughed under her breath and shook her head.
“And,” Isa continued, “get this—Rafael also mentioned their fence is falling apart. Guess who got volunteered for that?”
Her eyes landed on me.
“You didn’t...”
“I did. I said you’re handy, Brendan. Which, let’s face it, you are. This all happened before Marisol showed up. That’s when Camila treated her wound and applied the bandages.”
Marisol sighed. “But wait—that’s not all. You haven’t even heard the best part.”
Isa nodded, suddenly serious. “Rafael’s making a supply run tomorrow. Eastbound. Across the mountains. He said if we help out today, he’ll take us with him.”
My heart kicked. “You’re serious?”
Marisol nodded. “He’ll drop us off on the other side. Saves us at least two or three days of climbing and circling, maybe more. It’s a huge opportunity.”
For a moment, none of us said anything. Just the sound of rain dripping off the roof, our breathing, the distant thunder.
I glanced at Marisol. “You signed off on all this?”
Marisol gave me a look halfway between exasperation and amusement. “Not at first. When I found her at the clinic and she told me what she’d done, I was pissed off. I was ready to strangle her.”
Isa smirked. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” Marisol admitted. “Because it worked. I got treatment, real supplies. Brendan and Luz get a chance to trade labor for transport. And we’ll all be that much closer to the border.” She paused and looked at her hand again. “You were right. The end justifies the means. Big time.”
Luz stepped closer to her cousin and wrapped an arm around her. “You did good, Isa.” She kissed her on the cheek.
“Damn right I did,” Isa said, beaming.
I walked up and clapped Isa lightly on the shoulder. “Seriously. Thank you. You may have just saved us a whole chunk of this trip.”
“You guys can thank me by not making me dig latrines for a week,” she laughed.
“No promises,” I cracked.
But the truth was, we were all looking at Isa with something close to awe. That charisma of hers, when managed correctly, was quite an asset. In this mess, in this stitched-together survival game we were playing, she’d pulled off something huge.
And tomorrow, with a little luck, we’d be in a whole new stretch of country. One more step closer to home.
I wiped sweat from my brow with the edge of my sleeve and took a step back from the fence, examining my work. Rafael’s old wire mesh was rusted and sagging, but with a little creativity—and a lot of scavenged nails—I’d managed to give it some new life. My hands were scraped, my shoulders sore, and I figured I’d earned a break.
Inside the house, the air was thick and humid, but it felt a few degrees cooler than outside. I followed the sound of quiet conversation and found Luz at the small wooden table in the corner of the living room. Sofia sat across from her, beaming up at Luz like she was a superhero. Luz had her pen in hand, her favorite tool, and was scribbling simple vocabulary exercises on a notepad in a looping, neat script.
Sofia repeated each English word carefully, grinning when she got it right. Luz’s face lit up with every little success. I felt it then—this soft, sudden tug in my chest. Watching her there, patient and joyful, I was overwhelmed with affection for this woman who could charm children in two languages and find magic in a sheet of paper.
There was music coming from the next room—something poppy and fast, with a beat that shook the floorboards a little. I wandered toward the sound and peeked inside.
Isa was in the middle of the room, flanked by two little girls—probably six and eight years old—both giggling hysterically as Isa demonstrated some dance move I’d definitely seen on social media. She was barefoot, her hair in a wild halo from the humidity, and she looked like she was having the time of her life.
Camila, standing just behind me, laughed and handed me a bottle of water. “Tu amiga es muy divertida,” she said warmly.
I replied with an amiable smile, getting the gist of her Spanish but regrettably not able to formulate a reply. I took the bottle; the water hit the spot. “Gracias.”
Inside the room, Isa paused mid-dance to grab Camila’s hand. She giggled and spoke to her in Spanish, something along the lines of, “You’re not getting out of this.” Camila resisted for a few seconds, laughing, but Isa was persistent—and persuasive. A moment later, Camila was dancing too, laughing along with her daughters.
I backed away quickly before Isa spotted me and pulled me in. I had a hundred reasons ready to go if she tried, but deep down, I knew I’d cave the second she turned that look on me.
Outside again, I leaned against a wooden post and sipped my water. Marisol appeared a few minutes later and came to stand beside me.
“Fence looks good,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Clinic fixed you up, huh?”
She held up her hand, now properly wrapped. “Yeah. No offense, but this is a step up from your custom-cut bandaid job.”
“None taken,” I said with a grin. “Just glad that wound of yours has been taken care of.”
She grew more serious then. “A couple of things. First of all ... this may seem like a strange question, but what’s your shoe size?”
I looked at her quizzically. “Yes, that’s a weird question.” But I’d gotten to know Marisol well enough to realize that when she asked a question, she wanted an answer. I knew that in time, I’d understand her motive. I told her my shoe size.
The smell of something cooking drifted through the open doorway of the little kitchen, drawing me in like a cartoon character in an old Saturday morning show. Isa was humming while she stirred something in a battered pot, and Luz was busy slicing a couple of tomatoes with the kind of focus you’d expect from a brain surgeon. Marisol stood with her hands on her hips, taste-testing with a small spoon, clearly in charge of quality control.
They’d taken simple ingredients—rice, some dried beans, a few spices—and turned them into something warm, filling, and actually delicious. I didn’t know how they did it, but I sure wasn’t going to argue. After the last few weeks, any hot meal cooked with care was a luxury.
We all ate together out front on Rafael and Camila’s porch, the sky darkening fast above us. Rafael joined us for a bit, sharing quiet stories about the towns on the other side of the mountain, while the girls cleaned up. Afterward, he pointed us toward an abandoned building just down the road—a sturdy one, with intact walls and a roof that didn’t leak. “Sleep there tonight,” he said. “You’ll be dry. Storm’s coming back.”
We thanked him more times than I could count. When we finally made our way to the building, dusk had settled in thick and heavy. We laid out our blankets, and not long after we shut our eyes, the rain returned. It came hard and steady, tapping against the roof like a drumbeat, but this time we were warm, fed, and dry. That was more than we’d had in a while.
By morning, the rain had eased into a light mist. We headed back to Rafael and Camila’s to say goodbye. Camila met us on the porch, with her daughters clinging to her sides. Luz pulled out her pen and paper again—no surprise—and carefully wrote down their contact information. I saw her lean in and hug Camila, whispering something that made both women smile.
Then Isa came up beside me and nudged my shoulder. “Just like with Diana earlier, I’m gonna send them something nice,” she whispered. “Camila, the girls ... they deserve it. Just wait.”
I nodded, not the least bit surprised. Isa had a heart bigger than most cities.
We piled into Rafael’s beat-up sedan, squeezing shoulder to shoulder with our backpacks in our laps. As the car rumbled to life, I turned around for one last look. Camila waved from the porch, her daughters waving too, small hands flapping in the morning air.
We waved back, and then we were off—rattling down the road, heading east. Toward the mountains. Toward the next chapter.
We made it over the mountains by mid-morning, Rafael’s little car humming and rattling along the winding roads with a determination that seemed to mirror our own. I watched the landscape change as we descended—lush hills flattening into wide stretches of farmland and dusty towns. Rafael talked very little, just focused on the road, but there was something reassuring in his presence. When he finally pulled into the outskirts of a town, we climbed out and stretched, all of us a little stiff from being packed in tight.
“This is it,” he said. “I’ve got supplies to pick up. You’re on your own from here.”
We thanked him more than once, and he just nodded, like helping a bunch of tired, sunburned strangers was the most natural thing in the world. As he drove off, I looked over at Marisol. She had a small smile on her face—grim, but satisfied.
“That ride,” she said, turning to all of us, “just bought us maybe four days. More if we’re smart about the next leg.”
“Four days?” Isa whistled. “Not bad for a little fence repair and a dance lesson.”
Luz laughed, slinging her pack on her shoulders. “Let’s hope the karma keeps rolling.”
That’s when Marisol shifted gears. “There’s something else,” she said. “Rafael told me about a northbound migrant caravan, coming up from Central America. They’re headed for Matamoros—across from Brownsville.”
I could feel the shift in our little group, like a breeze changing direction.
“If we move fast,” she continued, “we can meet up with them a couple of days after this. Stick with them all the way to the border.”
“Caravan?” Luz blinked. “Like a real one? With hundreds of people?”
“Maybe thousands,” Marisol said. “They travel in groups, for safety. It’s risky, though—real risky. Some of the people in those caravans, they get targeted. Police, military, cartels ... we’d be safer in numbers, but more visible too.”
Isa looked thoughtful. “And Brendan?” she asked.
Marisol nodded slowly. “That’s my biggest concern. You stand out. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“We’ll come up with something,” she said. “We’ll need to.”
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