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She worked one foot up onto the tiny ledge then drove her hand into the narrow crevice and made a fist. The flesh jammed tight and she pulled herself up till she was standing one foot on the ledge to either side of the chimney.
Ignoring the pain in her injured shoulder, she drove her left hand into the crack above her right and made a fist, a wedge of finger bones. Pulling herself up, she scrabbled for footholds. The stone, broken here, less weathered, gave better purchase. Hand over hand, skin scraped away by the rock, A
A snapping sound beneath her left shoulder shot fire up into her brain, but her right hand was on the bole of a small tree at the trail's edge and her feet were solidly placed. With an effort that dragged a grunting cry from her, A
It was good to lie still, to hurt in peace, to be alive. Soon, though, the kindly rocks of the trail grew sharp, digging into her back. Flies swarmed around the oozing scrapes on her body. Thirst dragged her back from drifting dreams of rescue.
A
"Pardon me," A
Evidently she could. When next A
"You're doing good," Cheryl said, her square, seamed face as comforting as some generic mom's. "We're taking you out. We'll be to the first water crossing in a minute. You're doing good."
"Good," A
13
WIDESPREAD but not deadly was how the doctor at the Carlsbad Hospital had described A
Two days in the hospital for observation and she could go home. The first day she was called a "lucky girl" and a "brave girl" so often she was ready to punch somebody. When Rogelio appeared, a cold quart of Ballena and two flat loaves of Mexican sweet bread in a paper bag, A
Rogelio pressed her bandaged palm to his lips. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the rough stubble on his cheek. "All the perfume in Arabia couldn't sweeten this little hand," he said and smiled. "See. Not a complete illiterate."
A
"Whatever," he said. He dipped his finger in a tear caught in the corner of her mouth. Delicately, he dabbed it behind his ear and, though she would've liked to cry for another hour-another day-to flush the fear and helplessness from her soul, she found herself smiling.
Rogelio brought the Ballena and the bread to her table. They looked rustic, real in contrast to the formidable efficiency of the stainless-steel tray. A
"Ah." Rogelio didn't seem displeased to have the beer to himself. "Seen God yet?"
"Wrong kind of drugs," A
"You're pretty beat up, A
At present she felt she'd never again want to be touched anywhere on her person with anything more forceful than a feather duster. Even through the painkillers, she knew she hurt. Knowing the feeling would pass, A
"Tell me what happened," Rogelio said.
A
Rogelio kissed her gently as if she were made of glass. "Whatever they're giving you, save some for me."
What sounded like the report of an automatic weapon rattled outside the window and A
The third of July: A
"What is it, querida?" Rogelio asked. "Why so sad?"
"Today Zach would have been forty." Usually A
For a while Rogelio said nothing. He finished the Ballena, stared out of the second-story window. Beyond, where the low hills north of Carlsbad met the sky, afternoon thunderheads were begi
"My birthday was a week ago yesterday," he said finally. "June twenty-fifth."
"Happy birthday," A
"You never bothered to ask," he said evenly, his eyes still on the thunderclouds. "I turned thirty-two." A
"I'm glad you came." A
"Don't knock yourself out." He kissed her and left.
A
She dreamt of trying to call him, of standing in a phone-booth at the corner of Fifty-second and Ninth, but the street gangs had spray-painted over his number and the holes on the dial phone didn't match up with the digits.
A
The drugged sleep had obliterated the memory of much of Rogelio's visit but A
She was not to have the chance. It was Christina and Alison. Alison had a hand-drawn get well card with a camel on it. She'd wanted to draw Gideon to keep A
"I fed Piedmont. Your door was unlocked," Christina said.
"You lifted down the sack. I fed Piedmont," Alison corrected her mother.
Christina winked at A