The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(32)

Mira resists my grip on her shirt.

“No,” I whisper firmly when she stops our retreat and turns to face the girl. I look to Mira for a translation, an explanation.

“She said she must get to the next safe house, or she will die.” There is sympathy, clear and dangerous, in my sister’s eyes.

“We don’t know what this girl might do,” I hiss to Mira.

Mira grabs her water bottle from her bag and tosses it over to the girl. She catches it one-handed and tears open the lid.

“Gracias,” she says after two respectful sips.

Mira gestures to the shantytown down river. “Sé que hay personas aquí que pueden ayudarle.” I’m sure there are people here who will give you aid.

The girl shakes her head, lifting her empty hand in a helpless gesture. “Solo ayudarán a su propia gente.” They will only help their own.

Away from the bridge, the harsh noon sun beats down on the girl, illuminating what I didn’t see before. The grime that lines her neck, the tattered clothes that hang loose on her body; the hollowed cheeks, the worn-out shoes and eyes that betray a grueling journey.

A sign of what’s to come.

“?Eres tú una Glut?” I ask point-blank. Are you a Glut?

“Soy de Ciudad de México,” she answers evenly. I am from Mexico City.

A vehicle unexpectedly drives across the bridge, sending Mira and me flying to the ground. The girl just stands there unafraid as the deafening vibrations bounce off the concrete structure, and I search over my shoulder terrified, convinced a military brigade has found us at last.

When the reverberations die off, I realize it was only a lone civilian car. The girl studies us closely as Mira and I rise from the dirt. I pull my hood lower, covering my eyes from her scrutiny.

“?Cómo llegaste aquí? Es imposible cruzar la frontera de los Estados Unidos,” I say. How did you get here? The United States border is impossible to get through.

She hesitates, her sharp eyes focusing first on me, then on Mira. She’s debating how much to reveal.

“Ensé?ame una pared de cien pies de altura y yo te ense?aré una escalera de ciento un pies,” she answers simply. Show me a hundred-foot wall, and I will show you a hundred-and-one-foot ladder.

So she just slipped right past the Border Guard and the motion-detector lasers?

Mira lets go of the breath she’s been holding, and I know she’s hooked. She pulls me aside, freely speaking English, knowing the girl won’t understand.

“We should take her with us.”

“No.” I shake my head, adamant.

Mira moves in closer to me, insistent. “We could at least give her the position of the next safe house,” she argues.

From the corner of my eye, I see the girl’s brow furrowed deep in concentration, trying hard to interpret what we are saying.

“We don’t know what she will do with that information. She’s not our problem—we have to worry about ourselves,” I say.

She’s worn out and weak—she will slow us down. She will use up our food and water supply. She will discover our secret.

“So we’re just going to leave her here to die?” Mira throws at me, blasting through my justifications. I feel my defenses crumbling to the ground. I sigh, agreeing.

Mira turns to face the girl. “Puedes venir con nosotras a la siguiente casa segura,” she says. You can come with us to the next safe house.

The girl bows her head, wrapping her fingers around a rosary she pulled from her pocket.

“Gracias,” she says softly.

Mira and I shoulder our bags and open our umbrellas, preparing for departure.

“Me pueden llamar Lucía,” the girl offers. You can call me Lucía.

I nod, not offering our names in return. The less she knows about us, the better.

Mira extends a smile, and we move out into the unforgiving desert. Lucía hesitates, uncertain.

“?Salimos ahora? Es más fresco viajar en la noche. Con menos ojos,” she says. We are leaving now? It’s cooler traveling at night, with fewer eyes.

“Puedes venir con nosotras ahora o quedarte,” I answer. You either come with us now or stay.

She’s right, but we have no time to waste.

The big Texas sky is without mercy.

The sun assaults the brushy, rough terrain we walk on, beating through our umbrellas, drenching us in a sticky sweat.

We travel in a tight line. I lead, with Mira in the middle and Lucía bringing up the rear. In every direction we turn, there is only scorched, flat land. I’ve never seen a skyline without soaring skyscrapers dominating the horizon. I take in the unobstructed view, refusing to blink until my eyes fill with water. I breathe the open air deep into my lungs. Surrounded by so much danger, I’ve never felt more free.

No one speaks. We all simply walk, one step in front of the other, focused on our own thoughts to help melt away the hours.

It takes about twenty minutes to cover one mile. I calculate we have sixty miles until the next safe house. If I keep track of the time and we keep up the pace, we face roughly twenty hours of trekking through the arid, seemingly endless desert. We will have to strictly monitor our ration intake—it will be a miracle if our water supply doesn’t run out before we reach Dalhart and the next name on Father’s map: Kipling.