***

– and greedy, engorged river. Almost overflowing its banks as it winds between the field and the road. Water pounding roots and rocks and earth. So loud that the boys do not notice the distant thunder. Hear the strange crackle of heat lightning. Martin fakes right, drills the ball into the top left corner. Fat Rafa takes the bait and flops around in the dirt like a dead fish. Martin’s teammates holler with glee. Fat Rafa pounds his fist into the dirt. Martin pumps his fist in the air.

A kid at midfield screams, “Oh SHIT!  Get the ball!” Which is rolling at a steady clip towards the embankment, and the river.

Martin doesn’t hesitate, sprints past the goal, over the hard-packed dirt and scrambles down the pebbly embankment. Just ahead of him the ball plops into the water. This bend in the river is shallow, Martin knows, and he whips off his shoes and socks, darts in. He is not scared.   If he is the one to lose the soccer ball in the river, they will never, ever let him play again. Cool water over his ankles, his calves, licking at the base of his knees. The current grabs the ball, tosses it upstream. He steps on a rock, sinks into the mud. The river curls and flows, faster than he can walk and the raging water pulls at him until he can’t stand up. He’s going to have to swim for it. He can hear the boys’ shouts behind him, can see the black and white ball floating just ahead of him, lodged on something. The watery fingers of the current push and prod relentlessly at the ball. If he can just get to it before it gets free. He dives. Sucked into the cool weightlessness of water.

A torpedo.

A submarine.

An arrow.

The current is so fast, he does not even need to kick. It is a glorious feeling, and he stays under until his lungs start to burn. When his head breaks the surface, he is just about to the ball.  Mouth open, air whooshing into lungs. It doesn’t matter where he wants to go, that choice is the river’s. Fear envelops him like water.

Kick.

Breathe.

Kick –

***

– Breathe. Which is what Alejandra has to tell herself as Jessenia talks on and on. Breathe. Her short-lived relief has transformed into something else entirely. Fear. Recognition. Kinship. Her own toenails are pink against the kitchen floor.

Pink toenails.

Jeans.

Ring on the pinky finger.

Ataque de pánico the doctor called it when she first described her symptoms after Martin was born. He gave her medicine, but it made her feel dulled and slow. On the internet she found a breathing technique that helps to quell the surges of panic when they come. She tries it now. Breathe, she tells herself. Breathe, she repeats, counting.

When big green trucks filled with white powder bricks first started rumbling around Santa Rosa a year ago, people said at least the trucks didn’t come into the town. When el jefe of one of the southern cartels built a monstrosity of a house on the hill, people said at least they never really saw him. When the river churned up the bodies of men with bullets in their heads and tattoos on their arms, people said it wasn’t like they knew them. They were powerless to do anything about any of it. Pretending was self preservation. Until it wasn’t. Until throngs of people started appearing on the roads alongside the green trucks, heading north lugging children and suitcases.

“How in God’s name is a child going to walk three thousand miles?” her mother would say, disapprovingly.

Stop. Alejandra tells herself. Don’t think about it. It doesn’t make a difference.

Does it?

She was a woman.

“I’m sure she’s not from here,” Jessenia says. “We would obviously know if someone was missing –”

All Alejandra can hear is she.  

“– obviously with the cartel.”

Class, what is the definition of with?

Accompanied by. 

As if they were going to a concert. 

Not Kidnapped,

Raped,

Mutilated,

Tossed.

“Not with, Jessenia. Not with,” Alejandra murmurs. Feeling sure that at this moment she could sprint three thousand miles if she had to. Except, Mamá. Alejandra puts her head on her mother’s shoulder and breathes in the flowery scent of her.  Squeezes her arms around the soft girth of her.

“Ay mi hija! It’s as hot as an oven in here. Leave me alone!”

Leave me.

Alone.

And Alejandra wonders, not for the first time how she is supposed to walk away from her own body? Flesh of her flesh. Sever herself to save herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Don’t,” says Mamá, doling out her own reprimand as if she can read her daughter’s mind.

Spineless, Alejandra thinks in response.

Headless.

The lid on the pot starts to rattle. Reaching down, she turns off the flame.

Teeth clenched tight –