***

“– the pot, Mamá. I’m going to go get Martin for lunch,” Alejandra declares to the other two women.

Her mother is at the stove again, stirring. Jessenia is chopping peppers. Neither look up as she pushes open the door and steps into the slanting sunshine. She makes her way along the chipped cement walk lined with cracked pots that are overflowing with bright flowers. Slips the strap of her flip flops between her toes and steps onto the rutted dirt, heading west towards the river and the soccer field.

A dusty blue pickup passes her and slows. She recognizes the white hair, craggy face and feels the heat rise to her face.

“Buenos días, Señorita.” He tips his hat.

No.

“Another body came in from the river.  I know that you are… interested.”

“Oh no.  Just curious.  Nothing – I’m not – ” she stammers.

“Since I saw you walking along, just figured I’d save you a trip and let you know that this one didn’t have a half-moon scar on the thumb, either.”

He tips his hat. Accelerates, slowly.

She burns.

One foot in front of the other –

***

– the two men reach the end of the foot bridge and step onto the dirt, make their way towards the group of boys. Martin is not sure why the boys have stopped joking and arguing and moving, but he copies them. The larger man has a long black gun slung over his shoulder. The smaller man who is walking a few steps in front reaches the group first. He is smiling. And automatically, Martin smiles back. Be polite, his mother always says. He notices that the man’s arms have tattoos that cover the skin like a shirt. He spies a snake with giant fangs, a woman in a bathing suit, letters. The group of boys parts, silently. They are aware, somehow that he is looking for someone. The smaller man spots Martin. Strides over and crouches down in front of him so that they are eye to eye.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Martin.”

“And how old are you?”

“Six and a half.”

The man is nodding slowly. “You know why I had to stop the car, right?”

Martin shakes his head, no.

The man laughs, a crackling sound that explodes out of his chest, scratchy and wet. “When I saw a little guy like you get past five defenders, make a shot to the top right corner and then jump into the river to save the ball, I told Solomon to pull the car over.”  The man stands up.  “Reminded me of me.” Then he reaches into his pocket and hands Martin a wad of bills. “Gritty. Tough.” He looks up at the sky. “Storm. C’mon.”

Martin does not take his eyes off of the wad of bills in his hand. Two hundred. He has never seen this much cash. The two men make their way over the foot bridge, onto the pavement and get into the car.

“Shit,” one of the older boys whispers. “Shit. Do you know who that was?”

Martin is staring at the men. And then he is sprinting towards the bridge.

“Wait!” he yells.

Running –

***

– now, Alejandra reaches the river and turns right along the hard packed dirt. She sees the boys. They are standing at the edge of the field in a clump looking at something. Silent. She does not see Martin. The boys don’t hear her approach, and when she gently touches the shoulder of one of the taller boys, he startles.

“Was Martin here playing with you?” she asks.

The boys look at her, dirt caking their legs, hair spiky with sweat. For a moment, no one says anything. Then, one of them points across the river and tells her about the man with the tattooed arms and shiny black car.

“He ran after the men.” The boy swallows, his voice cracking. “Got in the car. It went that way.”

And then she is sprinting, back the way she came. Along the river, stumbling in the ruts of the road, gulps of hot air lodging in her throat, her chest. Her eyes on the black strip of a road running parallel across the river until the part where the road bends east. There is nothing on the road. Her legs and her lungs quit. Muscles shaking, she chokes on the heavy air which has transformed into something solid and dry in her mouth. She must yell. She has to yell. But her mouth is not working. Her entire body failing her. Rain drops, more now, spatter, scatter. Dust swirls up from the road in great brown clouds. And a black car rounds the corner at the far end of the dirt road. Approaches. Stops. Martin hops out of the backseat, his grin fading when he sees his mother’s face. She grabs him, wraps her arms around his tiny self, would swallow him if she could. Stares at the car that has spit her child out. The driver’s forearm rests on the window; Alejandra’s eyes latch onto the snake, the half-naked woman, drift unbidden to the base of the thumb which is smooth and brown.

The man leans out the window and looks Alejandra up and down, slowly, the way men do. As if each part is just a part. As if there is no whole. He says, “See you around, Martin.”

But all Alejandra hears is his name.

Martin.

And the sound of his name is enough to rip a hole in her gut just big enough to let courage slip in. They know his name. All the way home, Alejandra churns as fast and furious as the swollen river. The sky opens up. The rain is hot and heavy, soaking through their clothes.  The streets are empty. People crowd together under arched doorways and awnings and palm trees. The rain makes a thousand winding streams between the cobblestones. Some mangy dogs covered in lumps dart out and start growling and snapping at each other over a trash bag that has split and is oozing something foul and wet. His mother is half running, half walking. He can barely keep up. They pass the makeshift church with the corrugated tin roof and the TV that is always set to the God channel. An old woman sits on one of the metal chairs, her head bowed as the man on the television raves and gestures. They pass the gringa’s house, her neon pink running shoes on the porch, caked in mud.