Chapter 9

We broke camp at dawn, the air damp and cool around us. No fire, no chatter—just quiet rustling as we packed up our few belongings. My body ached from the cold ground, but I welcomed the discomfort. It reminded me I was still alive.

We had water, at least. Luz had filled every bottle and the coffee pot from the rain the day before. But food ... that was another story. We were down to a few pieces of fruit, a half-crushed pack of crackers, and some stale tortillas. Maybe enough for a day, two if we were careful.

The morning hike was quieter than usual. I could feel the tension radiating from each of us. We weren’t walking toward a possibility anymore—we were walking toward a plan. A sliver of hope.

When we reached the place Marisol had marked on the map, it was ... empty. Just a dusty road, a few tire tracks in the dirt, and a pair of vultures circling overhead.

Marisol frowned, her eyes scanning the area like she could will the caravan into existence.

“It’s not here,” Luz said, unnecessarily.

“I see that,” Marisol replied, already moving off toward a roadside shack with a crooked tin roof. She spoke to a man sitting outside, then another. We waited.

After a few tense minutes, she came back.

“They’re delayed,” she said. “Been stopping a lot—maybe due to illness, or kids. Could be anything. Word is, they’re two days out.”

Isa groaned, plopping down on a rock. “Two days?”

Marisol nodded. “We’ll wait. We don’t have a choice.”

So, we turned back toward the forest. It was all we could do.

We found a half-hidden patch of land, tucked behind a curtain of vines and low brush. No one would stumble on us here. That was good. Necessary.

We set up camp again, moving with the slow, deliberate rhythm of people who had done this too many times. I laid out my bedroll beside Luz’s, and she leaned her head against my shoulder for just a moment before pulling away to help Isa dig out what little food we had left.

No fire again. Just cold tortillas and quiet, and a growing sense of urgency we tried not to speak aloud.

We didn’t go anywhere the next morning. For the first time in days, our feet weren’t pounding a road or trail. No planning a route, no calculating distance or time—just waiting. And waiting turned out to be its own kind of exhausting.

We tried to make ourselves useful. A short scavenging trip yielded very little—two more lighters, which we certainly appreciated. Beyond that, we found an empty tuna can, a shredded tarp, a rusted-out pot we didn’t need. No food, no real supplies beyond the lighters. The trees didn’t even offer fruit. It was like the land had decided to match our mood.

By midmorning, we all knew what we had to do. Ration the food. We laid out what we had—three tortillas, a small handful of crushed crackers, and a bruised mango that was starting to rot on one side. It wasn’t even enough to argue over. So, we didn’t. We just quietly split it and saved most of it for later.

But the worst part wasn’t the hunger or the stillness. It was the way we started to slump under it. Even Marisol, usually steady and alert, looked dulled at the edges, like her fire was down to coals. Isa had gone quiet, just drawing circles in the dirt with a stick. Luz sat with her knees pulled to her chest, staring off into the woods.

And I realized—I had to do something. Even if it was just words.

“Hey,” I said, pushing myself up and dusting off my pants. “Come here for a second. All of you.”

They looked at me, a little confused, but they came. We sat in a rough circle, knees nearly touching, like we had so many times before. But this time, I didn’t let the silence stretch.

“I know this sucks,” I said. “I know you’re tired, and hungry, and scared. So am I. But I need to tell you something.”

I looked at Marisol first. “You’ve been incredible. I mean it. You’ve led us through all of this—making decisions no one should have to make. You kept us moving. Alive. I wouldn’t wish that burden on anyone, but you’ve carried it like a pro. You’re the reason we’re even close to making it.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. She just lowered her eyes, and I saw her jaw flex.

Then I turned to Isa. “You’re the heart of this group. Even after everything—you’ve still found ways to laugh, to make us laugh. After being sick, after what that bastard tried to do to you ... most people would’ve folded. You didn’t. You’re still here, and you’re still shining.”

Isa blinked fast and looked away, biting her lip. But I saw her shoulders rise just a little.

Then came Luz. My throat tightened just looking at her. “And Luz ... I don’t even know where to start. You don’t try to grab the spotlight, but you’re always doing the little things. The things no one notices but make all the difference. You’ve taken care of all of us, quietly, without complaint. You hold us together.”

Marisol nodded. Isa reached out and touched Luz’s hand.

I took a breath, my voice thick. “Marisol, you’re our anchor. Isa, you’re our ray of light. And Luz ... you’re the glue. You keep us from falling apart.”

No one said anything for a second. Then Isa practically tackled me in a hug, and that triggered the others. We ended up in a tangled, messy pile of arms and backs and whispered “thank yous.” I didn’t even care that my stomach growled through the whole thing.

Yes, we were still tired. Still hungry. Still worried about the cartel, the caravan, all of it. But for a moment, none of that mattered.

We had each other. And that, for now, was enough.

Later that night, Luz was asleep in my arms, soft and still, her breath rising and falling in that steady rhythm that somehow always settled my nerves. But not tonight. Not this time. My mind wouldn’t quit. Even with her warmth pressed against me, I couldn’t follow her into sleep.

I stared up at the covering of leaves above, the occasional patch of starlight blinking through. The night was quiet, save for the distant buzz of insects and the faint rustle of wind. But inside my head—it was chaos. A slow-burning kind.

What happens after? After we cross the border, if we make it that far. After the danger’s behind us, the running’s over. What then?

Utah had been my life. A job. A little apartment. Hikes in the foothills. A few friends. My mother, occasionally. But no roots. Nothing anchoring me there. Not really.

Luz, though—she had roots. Thick ones, tangled up in family and community and history. Her home wasn’t just a place—it was people. And I’d seen just how deep those ties ran.

There would be a decision, eventually. A big one. Go back to my life—or start a new one somewhere unfamiliar but not lonely.

I looked at her, my arm snug around her waist. I already knew. I didn’t want to lose this. I didn’t want Luz to become a chapter. She was already the book. What we had—it ran deeper than anything I’d had before. Deeper than the love I thought I understood back in Utah. This wasn’t casual, and it wasn’t temporary.

And it wasn’t just Luz. My thoughts drifted to Marisol and Isa.

What surprised me was how much the idea of not seeing them again unsettled me. The thought of Marisol’s cool logic and protective instincts just vanishing from my life—of Isa’s endless light and fire just being gone—left a real ache in my chest. I hadn’t even noticed how close we’d gotten, how vital they’d become.

And then it hit me: they were like sisters to me. Marisol, the fierce and steady one. Isa, the sometimes flaky but always bold-hearted one. I’d never had sisters. I hadn’t had family, not for a long time, to be honest.

But I did now.

It wasn’t about geography. It wasn’t about Utah. It was about family. Luz’s family, which had somehow, almost imperceptibly, become my family too.

I knew where I wanted to be.

If we made it. If we got through this. Big if.