Thank you to everyone who submitted an entry to This Time Next Year: A Short Story Contest! The Des Moines Public Library and Little Village are thrilled to publish the first, second, and third place stories below. You may also click the links to download a .pdf version.
- First Place: "Awe Struck", by Dianne Alita Rosales Siasoco
- Second Place: "Inheritance" by Amy Cerniglia
- Third Place: "A Year's Worth" by Adam Beligard
First Place: "Awe Stuck", by Dianne Alita Rosales Siasoco
January 2026 – Des Moines
Some women had an orgasm when they saw one for the first time. Ever since I learned that, I’ve had to tamp down my already-heightened expectations while making our plans. Things like that just don’t happen to me, nope, not anymore. I keep pushing the trip forward anyway: book a hotel, map it out, and get excited—but not too excited.
As usual, Rafael researches the details. “Do you think it’s a good idea? The news says the traffic is going to be bumper to bumper.” With that, a vision of our toddler, Fiona, screaming while *Miss Rachel* plays on repeat in a traffic jam, kills my orgasm dreams.
“Why do you always have to find all the problems?”
He rubs his forehead. “We can still go…”
I know he’s right, but these days I fight for fun on principle. After they go to bed, I cancel everything and immediately do an online search for the “next total solar eclipse.” It's Jan. 26, 2027, this time next year. I click on the map and zoom in on the zone of totality—the part of the Earth where the moon will block the sun. Minutes of darkness incite behaviors and experiences in the natural world, which usually occur at night.
I gasp. Smack dab in the middle of the highlighted zone is the city where we fell in love and did our fair share of wild things in the night. I run to Fifi’s bedroom where he fell asleep with her. At the foot of the bed, I whisper, “Honey, I need to show you something.” Nothing. He’s open-mouthed snoring. I go back to my laptop and shut it. Best not to fantasize about our past and future lives.
August 2015
To wait for the next eclipse, delaying satisfaction, is so not me. Single and childless, I spontaneously bought a one-way ticket to Spain after graduating with my teaching degree. I thought I was hot shit with my high ponytail and a new credit card when I showed up at the Madrid-Barajas airport, not knowing where I was going to stay on the first night.
I hopped on a train to Madrid, and some teenage boys whispered, “*china*” and “*guapa*,” to each other. They weren’t brave enough to hit on a grown-ass woman yet, but leered enough to get under my skin. Rolling my eyes, I sat a couple of rows behind them and looked across the aisle to where another “*chino*” was peering at me. *Oh, what now?*
In perfect deadpan, he asked “Are you *china* or *japonesa*?” He couldn’t sustain it, and I saw a little smirk post-delivery.
“Ha!” I replied. “Why do they know only two types of Asians? It’s the same in every non-Asian country.”
“Must be the Hollywood movies, all blondies and boobies, *Karate Kid* and Jackie Chan.” He chuckled.
I liked him. “Yeah, not their fault. It’s all they’re fed, but I wish they knew something about Filipinos. The Spanish were all up in our business for 300 years.”
“Preach! I’m Filipino too—actually, half. My mum is Irish. Where you headed?”
“I don’t know yet.” I pointed to my guidebook.
“You should come to this rad hostel where I’m meeting my *compadres*.” Damn, that was quick—the gumption of a confident man.
My left leg started to bounce. I didn’t want to hang with English speakers. I came here to live my best foreign life, but this would make it easier tonight. I glimpsed the outline of a long dimple in his right cheek. He was holding the book *As the Bell Tolls* on top of his Scottish hiking kilt. I hope he’s not a douchebag.
He interrupted my not-so-hidden once-over. “Hey, player. Do you need to see my ID? I’m legit.” He pulled it out of his book. “I go by Rafa.”
Playing along, I looked at him and then back down at the ID: Rafael Villanueva, 5'11”, black hair, blue eyes, California. “I’m Josie. I’ll think about it.”
He looked pleased and placed it back in his book. He would be just fine whether I came or not—this American conquistador. I pretend-read my guidebook, even though I knew for damn sure that I’d be following him that night. It was the first time that I had traveled alone.
At the hostel, he spoke fluent Spanish with the staff. Around Rafa, I learned that blue eyes and command of a language held great powers. I moved closer to him, so they’d know we came together.
***
The outdoor kitchen and patio could’ve been the setting of any rom-com: warm red walls, candle-lit lamps, magenta bougainvillea vines. I would’ve looked out of place if not for my sister’s unsolicited pre-departure luggage check, taking everything practical out and trying to throw in tighter and trendier outfits. I allowed this shoulder-less top, which at least had some character and breathing room. Rafa had changed, too. The kilt was gone, replaced with linen pants and a black T-shirt revealing a mandarin-sized disco ball tattoo on the back of his forearm.
He looked at ease, weaving in and out of conversations and making dinner with his friends, who were not American but Mexican and Irish. When I was in his orbit, he’d hover noticeably close with his hand-rolled joint, submerging me in his haze of smoke and attention. “Ever tried hashish and tobacco?”
“No, but I’d like to.” I needed an extra something to calm my nerves, so I put down my lit cigarette and took a long drag of his. Within minutes, we were high together, cry-laughing, and calling each other *chino*. I was toast. No chance against him. The rest of the night, I watched him in slow motion, licking the edge of rolling papers as he made his next cigarette. He smelled like lavender and vanilla. What man smells like this?
He eyeballed me back. “Want to take a walk, *guapa*?
We sauntered away from the party, passed my room, and into his. Once the door was shut, we lunged at each other. Sex on a bunk bed seemed inevitable, our clothes coming off with emergency-level urgency, but I pushed him away at the last possible moment.
With concerned eyebrows, he begged, “What’d I do?”
The drugs must’ve been wearing off because I confessed, “I’m not ready.”
His body stayed put, but he pulled my face in. He smashed my nose with his and whispered into my mouth, “I’ll wait for you.”
That’s really all it took. I knew what kind of man he was. The suspense of one night lying next to him was enough. When we woke up the next day, I let him have all of me.
***
By the end of the month, we were a unit. We scored English teaching jobs and rented a room in an apartment owned by two Spanish brothers, Carlos and Alejandro, in the Malasaña neighborhood. You’d think that sharing space with a couple of dudes would kill our romance, but it just made our urges to be together that much stronger. Our favorite spot was the American café next door, which had a booth in the back where we’d feel each other up whenever the server left the room.
We were in our 20s, but everything we did had a touch of juvenile delinquency. Without a car, I used to ride on his bike rack to the center of town with my feet dangling off the sides. In Retiro Park, we’d sing Smashing Pumpkins songs at the top of our lungs with Carlos on guitar while drinking Mahou beer from plastic cups. On another date, he dared me to run through a line of sprinklers without getting wet and videotaped me dodging the alternating sprays of water. Back in the day, fun was the biggest turn-on.
October 2026 – Des Moines
Every time Rafa asks me if something is a “good idea,” I want to punch a hole in the wall. What happened to the guy who used to draw tattoos of his favorite foods on my chest so that he could pretend to eat them off my body? It was a hamburger in the valley of my cleavage one day and French fries the next.
His good ideas now only concern wills and mortgages. Listening to him, I crave a stiff drink, but I gave that up years ago. Nowhere to go, nothing to drink, and no man to seduce. I don’t mind getting older physically, but losing my youthfulness is an unexpected surrender.
***
When the letter comes in the mail, it looks like a Halloween card. The envelope is black with a full moon and sun on the back. *Huh.* I open it and see his unmistakable handwriting, the largest words being “I,” “me,” and his signature at the bottom. “Jojo, I still love you. I’m sorry that I hurt you. Will you meet me under the shadow of the moon? I’ll be home for Thanksgiving and hope to see you there. Yours, Owen”
Shit. Why is he messing with my life again? My reply: “Owen, thanks for your apology. You hurt me, but I’ve moved on. Maybe I’ll see you at home. Best, Josie.” I don’t owe him anything.
I don’t tell Rafa about the letter because he doesn’t need the stress. He hates my ex, the closeted serial cheater. I need to keep him calm so he’ll ask for vacation time off work. I’d do anything to get to the eclipse at this point.
November 2026
We still haven’t bought flights, and I’m drowning in grading and Thanksgiving preparations. I’ll fucking lose it if my sister asks me what I’m bringing again. She gets ultra-competitive during the holidays.
Tonight, Owen planned a Friendsgiving at our local pub, which will give me the chance to tell him to back off to his face. Rafa’s staying home with Fifi, still ignorant of Owen’s visit. No need for a bar fight again.
On my way out, Rafa holds up my jacket so I can put my arms in. He does this for me, our daughter, our moms. The slight gesture reminds me he’s still in there, my gentle, quirky boyfriend. Our daily lives entomb us, but we’re here, breathing under the weight of parenthood and too much work.
The disappointment of adulthood seeps up into my eyelids. “Can we have an adventure soon, *chino*? It doesn’t have to be Madrid. Just anywhere with you.” My voice cracks.
He scans my face, reading wrinkled lines. “I’ll buy the flights tonight.”
I pull him in and press my nose to his. “I’ll wait for you.”
Jan. 26, 2027
I sit holding Fifi in my lap. I came all this way to be in awe of this head of hair that I see every day. We made it with our cells, yet they keep growing of their own volition. Part me, part him, mostly thousands of ancestors who came before us.
The sky darkens. People start cheering, hollering, smiling, and crying. Spanish birds are squawking. They’re coming down to roost from the sky, tricked into night. Fifi and I are like them. It’s time to settle in. Rafa grabs my hand.
And, just like that, total alignment happens. The sun and moon click into place, and the sun’s crown is glowing at the edges. Stillness begets wonder.
Then it goes.
The sky lightens, and birds start singing. It’s a new day.
Second Place: "Inheritance", by Amy Cerniglia
Sam's frantic fingers beat a staccato sound on the cheap laminate table, rhythm drilling into his brother’s nerves and fighting with the buzzy drone of fluorescent light overhead. “I’m just saying, that barn’s always been a death trap.”
“Jesus.” Jamie slapped a palm flat on the table, the sharp crack punctuating Sam’s drumbeat.
“Someone had to say it. This time next year we’ll probably be back here.”
Their older sister shook the vending machine and a second bag of M&Ms dropped. “I always said we should’ve sold the farm after Mom died. This wouldn’t have happened if Dad didn’t work so hard.”
“Right, Claire, because no one could possibly have a stroke in Evanston.” Sighing, Jamie stretched his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Damn!” He jerked upright as it nearly fell over and muttered angrily about county funding.
Claire’s boots scraped across the linoleum as she approached her brothers at the table and ripped open a bag of M&Ms. “We can’t say it was a stroke yet. Either way, Dad could see actual doctors in Evanston, not just Dr. Miller who’s probably delivering the Krueger’s sixth kid right now.” As she spoke, she separated the green candy on a clean napkin. “I can’t afford to keep flying back here for emergencies.”
Snagging a green piece from Claire’s neat pile, Jamie popped it into his mouth. “But it’s the only time we see you. How’s the baby, by the way?”
“Fine. This year’s just been hard.” Without looking up, Claire started organizing the blue candy next and swept beads of sweat off her forehead. The nearby air conditioning had given up hours ago, leaving the hospital’s break room with vending machines stifling and thick with the smell of burnt coffee.
As outside heat pressed against the windows, Sam’s fingers picked up a sharper, more urgent rhythm on the laminate. “Do we have to talk about this while Dad is dying?”
“Sam, don’t be dramatic.” The words were barely out of Jamie’s mouth when Nurse Deb appeared in the doorway, hand raised in a calming gesture.
“You can go sit with him now. Room 203, through maternity and past the construction.”
Sam was already on his feet. Trailing behind, Claire and Jamie followed yellow arrows through corridors that smelled of industrial disinfectant. Somewhere in the maze of peeling paint, a phone rang unanswered. The bright arrows pointed past an abandoned wheelchair, construction dust coating its metal in fine grit, and a bulletin board advertising a blood drive three months past.
As she walked, Claire thumbed through her phone screen and nearly collided with Jamie in a narrow corridor. “Sorry, is this boring you?” he scoffed.
Grip tightening on the phone, Claire said, “It’s important.” Her gaze never left the screen.
As Jamie peered over her shoulder, his voice dropped low. “Is that an attorney?”
“Our land’s worth $800K to developers if Dad can’t farm anymore,” Claire said, deflecting. “Reichert’s always said if we ever sell—”
“Not so fast. Did you get another DUI?”
“That was fifteen years ago, Jamie. I’m just worried about Dad.”
“You’re worried about a lawyer.”
Claire finally looked up. “If you must know, divorce isn’t cheap.”
Sam stopped walking and turned to face them. “You’re leaving Richard? Did I miss something?”
Claire brushed past him. “Just that he’s into redheads.”
Then Jamie stopped walking, too, and wiped his glasses on his stained shirt. “He’s cheating?”
Now they all stood still beside a men’s restroom and a landscape poster encouraging them to be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle.
“Like I said,” Claire retorted, irritation in her voice, “weird year.”
As Sam ducked into the bathroom, he said, "Sounds like you've got a lot to talk about. I’ll catch up in a second.”
Ignoring his brother, Jamie started to ask, “How long—”
“Two months.”
“Who else knows?”
“Dad knows. He always knows.” Claire’s phone buzzed and she ignored it. “Last month, I suggested therapy. Never thought it would lead to this…discovery, but that’s therapy for you.”
After Jamie forced a chuckle, the bathroom sink across the wall filled the silence. “So,” he finally said, “this is serious.”
“And now you know why we stopped visiting.” Claire leaned against the wall and rested a hand on her swollen belly. “It’s not…optimal timing.”
“All this time, this is why you’ve been so vague on the phone?”
“You never asked.” Claire shrugged. “And honestly, I feel embarrassed.” As Jamie’s brow furrowed, Claire's phone buzzed again. “I can’t add to your stress helping Dad. And Sam’s never in one place long enough to talk.” Her gaze shifted to the bathroom. “Should you check on him?”
When Jamie nodded, it was a quick and almost imperceptible dip of his chin. “Sure. And…” His voice softened. “Claire, I’m always here for you.”
“Thanks, Jamie.” She smiled before looking back down at her phone.
Hoping to splash cold water on his face, Jamie pushed through the bathroom door to find a mini bottle of laundry detergent, travel toothbrush, a stack of compressed towel tablets, a small bottle of body wash and what looked like three days’ worth of clean socks curled in a drugstore bag. “Sam?”
By the mirror, Sam stiffened mid-motion and then resumed smoothing his shirt, the fabric a road map of creases that suggested air drying. “Just freshening up. Long drive.” He shoved the laundry soap behind his deodorant.
As a car freshener tumbled out of Sam’s sweatpants, Jamie said, “Please tell me you're not living in your car.”
“Not permanently,” Sam mumbled, bending down and shoving the freshener back in his pocket. “Just since the school cut arts funding.”
Jamie turned the faucet off and on again. “Why don’t we tell each other anything? How long, Sam?”
“Since May.” Sam’s shoulders hunched forward, making him look smaller and younger. As soon as he’d packed up his kit, his hand was already on the handle and Jamie followed toward the door. “Don’t tell Claire,” Sam whispered.
They pushed into the hallway where Claire tapped on her phone. “Sam’s living in his Honda,” Jamie announced.
Claire's head snapped up. “What?”
Shaking his head, Sam said, “Not forever, just...can we focus on Dad?” Claire’s lips parted as he cut her off. “Come on,” he said, pushing past her. “Room 203, right?”
As Claire mouthed to Jamie, Later, the siblings’ footsteps toward their father’s room never quite fell into sync.
The door to room 203 hissed shut behind them and the hallway's antiseptic faded into another faint, coppery odor where Earl lay in his hospital bed, skin so flushed it looked bruised against the white pillow. His work boots sat neatly under the visitor’s chair, still caked with mud. His John Deere cap hung from the IV pole like a flag at half-mast and the green flannel Jamie gave him last Christmas draped over the radiator. Wires snaked from his body into a cluster of machines that blinked back at the siblings as the heart monitor's long, sparse intervals haunted the room.
While Sam picked at a hangnail, Jamie stood still except for his jaw that clenched and unclenched until Claire broke the silence. “So we agree? Jamie manages until we list?”
Staring at the monitor, Jamie said, “I can’t manage it without Dad. You know I’ve hated it since 4-H.”
“I never knew,” Claire admitted. “You hid it well.”
“If things like this keep happening,” said Sam, gesturing at his father’s hospital bed, “who knows what else we’ll find out about each other?”
“Not helpful,” Jamie shot back.
“Well, the sooner we sell, the sooner I can pay this attorney,” Claire said, her tone hopeful.
Frowning, Jamie slumped into the visitor’s chair. “We can’t just sell a century farm.”
“Let me take care of it,” Sam chimed in. “Not like I have a job anyway.”
“You’ll regret it,” Jamie warned.
“Not as much as working for that school district.”
“This is crazy.” Jamie's voice cracked. “Claire’s getting divorced, you’re living in your car and Dad’s—”
“Reichert’s offering 800k,” Claire interrupted, holding up her calculator app. “Split three ways, Sam will be out of his car, I’ll be divorced and Jamie, you’ll be doing whatever you want by this time next year.”
“You move quickly,” Earl remarked, his eyes closed and drawl unmistakably clear.
Claire’s phone clattered on the floor. “Dad!” She nearly tripped over her feet running to his side as Sam bent down to retrieve her phone.
“Just bad dehydration, by the way. Not a stroke. Dr. Miller got pulled to the newest Krueger.”
“How much did you hear?” Jamie was pale.
“Enough. Claire, glad they know about Richard. Sam, finally shared your housing update?”
As Sam set Claire’s phone on the bedside table, he said, “It’s good to hear your voice, Dad.”
“And Jamie?” Earl turned his head slightly. “Since when do you hate farming?”
“Since always. Since every morning at 4:30.”
“Your mother suspected. I just wanted you to tell me.”
“But it’s a century farm,” Jamie protested, “and Sam or Claire weren’t volunteering. Someone has to—”
“You know what's funny?" Earl shifted, wincing. “You’ve been talking to me about this. Claire’s marriage. Sam’s housing. But it took a medical emergency for you three to tell each other.”
“You ask questions,” Claire said quietly.
As Earl pressed the button for the nurse, he said, “Let’s sell it. The farm.”
“It’s been in the family forever!”
“So was your great-uncle’s drinking problem. Some things need to end.”
Nurse Deb appeared, looked at all their faces, and backed out again. “Five more minutes, then he rests.”
Outside the hospital room, a patient was being wheeled past, laughing about something, and Deb stepped back again to let them pass as Earl continued. “Sam, please reconsider my offer to stay with me now that your siblings know anyway. Claire, feel free to join. Sounds like we could all use time together. Jamie, what do you really want to do?”
Jamie looked at his hands. “I’d…like to try grad school again.”
“One more thing,” Earl said, finally opening his eyes fully. “The cafe M&Ms are free if you hit B4 twice.”
Clutching the other bag still in her pocket, Claire exclaimed, “Seriously?”
“Everything has a secret,” Earl said. “On your way out, please tell Deb I want real food. Jamie, call Dorothy Linn from my book club—tell her I’m fine but I'll miss dinner tonight.”
They all stared at him.
“What? I can have secrets too. Just a second date.” He closed his eyes again but they could see him smiling. “Holidays will be more fun now that we’re caught up.”
“Dad?” Claire nearly whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Sam and I can move back in?”
“As if I’d want my first grandson anywhere else?” The monitor’s rhythm had perked up and the sixth Krueger baby cried somewhere in the distance.
“So we’re really selling?” Jamie asked.
“Unless you secretly love farming?”
“God no.”
“Next year, it’ll be gone and we’ll all know each other a little better.” Earl closed his eyes. “Sam back on his feet, Claire free of Richard, Jamie in grad school and maybe I’ll have had that second date with Dorothy. Predictions aren't so scary when you're honest about what you want. Now, nearly dying, that’s scary.”
“Except you didn’t,” Sam said. “You were dehydrated.”
“I’ve earned the drama, dammit.” Claire started laughing and then her brothers. Though Earl kept his eyes closed, they could see his faint smile.
As the sun descended outside, light peeking through the window softened everything it touched. The hospital television murmured weather predictions while Sam sat remarkably still, hands quiet in his lap. Claire hadn’t even remembered to pick up her phone again and Jamie’s shoulders had dropped from near his ears for the first time in a long time. Past the window, among scattered vehicles in the parking lot, their three cars clustered together.
Third Place: "A Year's Worth", by Adam Beilgard
This was new. Elena wanted to cry. Except she couldn’t let herself. Not even when mom was gone, and mom was gone a lot lately. Not even then because she knew she wouldn’t stop crying. So, she waits, watching from between the large trucks that smell like vinegar and sweet smoke.
Her senses keen, staring at the pickup at the other end of the lot. Straining to hear over the interstate’s hum. Smelling the air, feeling the wind. She hears something that makes her spin around.
Nothing.
Only the mirage of a highway: dancing, swirling, muddying colors and lines. Heat waves cover the landscape like a sheet. Behind, endless robin egg veneer. This has been her life for two weeks. Running toward a horizon she’ll never catch.
“Mija”
She spins back, her hair sits in space, blinding her. But it’s ok, she recognizes the voice. She remembers to breathe. And her body begins to remember the pain. Not the constant ache of hunger, or lactic acid. She looks at her palm. It’s bruised and dented from the screwdriver she was squeezing.
And her mind begins to remember.
This is the screwdriver they used to turn the bathroom’s broken hot water handle. The screwdriver she used to pry the floor and hide her diary. What they used for just about anything but what it was designed for. The screwdriver that almost made her dad late every morning as he looked for it, before work.
She wondered what work was like. She tried to picture him, building or fixing something. But it was like a dream, she couldn’t render detail. A curtain of heat-wave, muddying colors and lines. Even when the agents show up in her daydream, they’re amorphous. Armored, shouting, sowing chaos. Blurring, blending, morphing together until they’re gone. And so is her dad.
“Mija. Podemos ir con ellos.”
A white truck intrudes on Elena’s dream; the job site burns away leaving the truck stop around her, and her mom, and her mom’s hand. And it’s pointing at the pickup.
Elena is frozen. Her lip quivers. For a moment, her mother is exasperated, then calm.
“Mija…”
She holds out her hand.
Elena’s vision becomes heat waves.
* * *
Whispers among the adults say the railroads hired private security. The stories that come back sound scarier than los federales. So, they walk to the promised land. Or find someone with a truck.
Sioux City – Ciudad Seguro. Their safe haven. The same adults speak in the same somber tones of farms and packing plants who banded together to protect their workers, regardless of citizenship. Except hope never visits Elena. The fear of a new city twists her stomach as much as the fear she feels whenever they’re exposed. The fear she feels every time her mom scans the road before shout-whispering ‘váminos’. The fear she feels, imaging where her father was – assuming he still was.
Sitting four across in the cab was almost comfortable, save for gear shifting. Despite her wariness, Elena is no match for fatigue. When she comes to, it’s still dark, and panic digs it’s claws into her chest. Instinctively, mom rubs Elena’s head.
“Lena, it’s ok…está bien…it’s ok”
Exhausted in every way, Elena buries her face in her mom’s chest and weeps.
It’s not the release she wanted.
A slam yanks Elena upright; her mom is ready. It’s still nighttime, but the parking lot has enough lighting to see an apartment building. Even dimly lit, she can see how the once white stucco has soured to tints of yellow. The apartment matches this aesthetic.
Elena had never seen all weather carpet. In her corner, unable to sleep, she drags her foot across to hear the sound and feel the tiny tremors run up her leg. A single ray of light finds her left eye. It’s morning. She doesn’t remember falling asleep, especially with her face pressed against the fake wood paneling. A plate of flautas is passed around; people eat over their bed-space on the floor.
It’s cold. Both the chicken and tortilla are tough to chew.
It’s the best meal she’s had in two weeks.
* * *
Her name is María, like Elena’s mom. She’s a year older than Elena and from a funny sounding town.
“Where’s that?”
“Basically Chicago.”
That doesn’t help. Elena asks more questions, wanting to know how others fared. Wanting to know what Chicago was like– before the raids. She wants to know everything will be ok, but she’s asking too many questions. This older girl is guarded, like the men Elena has met. She’s annoyed with this little kid. Or at least, that’s what Elena thinks.
“Espera aquí, con tu príma.”
Elena looks at the short, clean-shaven, man. Cousin? She studies María for a reaction. ‘I would be her cousin. Her friend’. She’s staring. She goes back to matching María’s energy. With three days of practice, she’s getting good.
They sit on a parking stop block, watching their surroundings. Elena speaks slowly, asks simple questions and takes long pauses. A practiced approach to getting María to open up. Then:
“What happened to your dad?”
It’s too much. Three days was not enough practice. Three years couldn’t be enough.
“I don’t know.”
“You trying to find him?”
First the gut punch, now a blow to her head. The parking lot begins to spin. ‘Were we?!’. Dark at the edges and closing in, Elena feels weak. A bell rings.
“Estamos listo.”
The short man exits the pawn shop, followed by Elena’s mother.
Once they’re alone, she brings up her father. Again.
Her mom stares at nothing.
“We should be looking for him! Maybe if we get caught, they’ll take us to where he is!”
“Elena, no! No sabemos si tu papá es-”
“Alive?!”
María winces. She still can’t look at her daughter.
Neither one sleeps that night.
There’s no work here. The rumor mill starts up again with tales of cities farther west. And tales of tinted SUV’s looking for their next bounty. Mechanical dogs, sniffing, hunting. Looking for a meal.
They never played. They just sat on different equipment and talked. Now, they don’t even do that. They sit in each other’s silence. Silence that is broken with a look.
Elena watches the life drain from María’s face. Eyes wide, jaw slack. Elena traces the terrified stare. A black SUV with tinted windows. At once, they jump down from the monkey bars and sprint for the apartment. Shouting can be heard.
Incomprehensible, not because of the chaos, but because she refuses to believe this is happening. Only when she can see the body armor, does Elena come to grips with the gravity of it all.
She darts into the bushes by the dumpster.
“Here!”
“No!”
María silently pleads with Elena. Someone rounds the corner, feet from her new friend. Elena stifles a shriek.
“María?!”
The clean-shaven man – María’s father? María looks at him, then back to Elena.
“Come on!”
“Sí. Necesitamos ir al camión!”
The man’s outstretched arm reaches for María. María, reaches for Elena.
“Váminos!”
‘It’s safe here! If they don’t find us, they’ll leave and we’ll be ok!”
María’s head darts back and forth.
“If we get to the truck-”
“Then they’ll chase the truck! Stay here, please!”
“MARÍA!”
Elena’s chest is tight. Her breath is caught in her mouth. Face tingling, senses failing. Everything blurs. A heat wave corrupts her eyes.
A slam. The truck speeds off. A man in a ski mask rushes to a car, hesitates, then slams the door and walks back to the apartment building.
From around the same corner, three more bodies appear.
“OESTE! OESTE! RÁPIDO!”
One of them is Elena’s mother.
“ELENA!”
Blurry vision jostles and shakes. She looks up; her mother’s face bounces around the whole of Elena’s scope. Slowly, Elena realizes she’s being carried.
Her breath comes back to her; details render.
“I’m ok, I can run!”
Her mom hesitates, then lets Elena’s legs drop. Without even coming to a full stop, Elena is on her own weight, running alongside her mother. As the world comes back into view, Elena realizes it’s just them.
“María?!”
“Allá!”
A steep hill down, covered in brush; at the bottom are train tracks. Winding, curving, mirroring the nearby river. People emerge from the brush, stumbling, clamoring to their feet. They run south along the tracks, away from a tight bend in the river.
Elena strains to see – María?
“Elena!”
Her mom’s voice comes from the overgrowth. Elena runs to the edge and side steps down, quickly feeling her way before adding weight. She hears the rustle of her mom ahead of her, but all she can see is tallgrass.
Over the all the noise, a voice:
“VÍCTOR!”
‘Víctor…that was- that is María’s…’. Tightness in her chest and stomach. She forgets to feel out her next step. A sudden lurch brings the ground up instantly. Then sky, then ground, and sky, then dark. A girl’s shriek brings her back to reality.
She stumbles out of the mud. Her mother runs back to her. She’s at the bottom of the hill, facing the river bend. Some men have splintered off from the masses and are heading north. They’re shouting that name, over and over as they scan the water.
“Elena! Váminos!”
Her arm feels like it’s going to dislocate, her mom is pulling so hard.
* * *
That was two days ago.
A new truck stop, which could just as well be the last one, or the one before. Elena crouches between rigs. The screwdriver is lost, so she fidgets to keep her hands busy.
The diner’s door is her whole world, her focus; so, it’s incredible to her that he came, unnoticed.
“Necesitas trabajo?”
Her legs buckle. Even if she could run, she wouldn’t know where.
“No debes…uh, ser asustando”
What? Never mind, close enough. She understands. Her eyes dart between him and the door. He follows them.
“In there? We can go in…Podemos ir…”
He’s a macabre fascination. Not much older than María. His skin is weathered, his hands rough. He doesn’t sound at home in English or Spanish but she understands him nonetheless. He has a red hat, but…different. It’s darker, and worn; dirty. There are no words on it. He’s an angel and a devil at once.
Elena backs into the truck. Hard. The quiet growl of a hungry SUV comes to a stop when it parks in front of the door. The boy sees it too.
“Váminos!”
His hand is outstretched.
At once, Elena sees every time her mother has done this. Coaxing her daughter to move.
Then, María.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Not her. Make it go away! Make it a muddy blur! She opens her eyes, worried it will be María. Wanting it to be María. But it’s not. It’s the soft yet hard features on this gringo child. Her world swims, twisting around this outstretched hand.
This hand.
Elena’s resolve takes over. She grabs this hand and like a dream, it guides her. She has control and she doesn’t. She looks around at blurry shapes dancing like watercolors in the rain. She’s still dizzy when a familiar shape comes into view.
“MAMÁ”
“Elena?”
Time and space snap back, almost knocking Elena down. Her mom lunges to intercept her daughter and this captor.
“We should go, ma’am”
“Está bien, mamá”
He looks at the SUV. Her mom looks back. It’s clear she didn’t see it before. They hurry, following the boy towards a beat-up white pickup. Elena feels a familiar pit in her stomach, but this time she bears down. Her focus narrows. The heat waves vanish.
A dry laugh escapes her lips.
That was a year ago. A year on the farm near Grand Island, where there were no islas and it wasn’t grande. A year of learning to sleep through the night. To eat slowly. To let your guard down.
A year from when her dad disappeared.
A year of planning how to get him back.