The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(40)

Not long, I suspect. No one ever does.

My focus returns to Lucía as she murmurs something to the woman. The woman shakes her head, and Lucía stumbles forward to a man on the next cot, repeating her two-word appeal. He looks upon Lucía with pity, bowing his head in silence.

“Rocío? Nicolás?” I hear her high-pitched plea as she drags herself from person to person. “Rocío? Nicolás?” she shouts over and over.

For every face she scans and passes, her body seems to bend and sink under the heaviness of her mounting anguish.

“Rocío! Nicolás!”

She meets a steady wave of shaking heads. Her legs buckle. She stoops so low that I fear the weight of her despair will sink her deeper and deeper beneath the ground until her voice grows hoarse and there’s no one left to listen.

She reaches the end of the line and staggers backward, crashing into Kipling. He catches her, and she looks up at the cowboy with a faith that keeps her trembling body vertical.

“Por favor. Busco a mi madre Rocío y a mi hermano Nicolás.” Please. I’m looking for my mother, Rocío, and my brother, Nicolás.

Kipling holds a thick notebook that must contain the names of every individual who has sought shelter within these walls.

“Deben estar aquí. Tienen que estar aquí,” Lucía says. They should be here. They must be here.

Kipling flips through his records, scrutinizing every line until he comes to the last page. “Lo siento,” he says. I’m sorry. He removes his hat and places it over his heart.

“Puedes quedarte aquí y esperarlos todo el tiempo que necesites.” You can stay here and wait for them as long as you need. We’ll get you fixed up in the meantime. With a tip of his hat, he takes his leave, knowing he can do nothing more.

Ava and I watch from the center of the room as Lucía’s rosary slides from her wrist onto the floor. She falls with it, collapsing to the ground, and I run to her, scared she’ll slip through the concrete.

Lucía looks up at me with tearless eyes. She’s already been drained dry. I stand immobilized, shamed at my inability to provide any aid or comfort to the friend who has given so much to me. My shame heightens to guilt as I feel Ava’s presence move beside me. I still have her. She still has me.

“Encontraras a tu familia,” Ava tells Lucía softly. You will find your family. Her words are empty solace, but her conviction makes them sound like a promise.

I hold out my hand, Ava holds out hers, and with our remaining strength, we help Lucía to her feet. The three of us stand there, unsteady and unsure where to go inside this crowded basement. A few shadowy strangers break away from the darkened corners to lead us to a row of vacant mattresses on the floor. They offer us their blankets, their smiles, their warmth.

Roth calls these people parasites. If they are parasites, then Lucía is a parasite. Then I’m a parasite.

Roth is the bloodsucker. Not us.

My watch tells me it’s 4:30 p.m. It feels like midnight down here. I close my eyes again, hoping to trick my body into thinking it’s on a normal sleep cycle, when the oval door shrieks open.

In walks Kipling, two stuffed rucksacks swinging from each hand. He stops in front of Ava and me and offers us each a bag.

“We have nothing to give you for these supplies,” Ava says, covering the fresh bandage that hides her microchipless wrist. Our old way of payment, gone.

“Already paid for,” Kipling answers simply.

Ava and I lock eyes. Father. He must have foreseen we’d find trouble along the way.

I unzip the front pocket and find a small bag of cosmetics—good—and a sharp pocketknife, the handle wrapped in the steel rings of a knuckle duster. Even better.

“If ya’ll wanna say yer good-byes and prepare for departure . . .” Kipling says with a tip of his hat. He circles the small room, checking on travelers, and returns to the open door, where a short line has formed. The shaded outlines of men and women shoulder their packs, concealing weapons and maps beneath worn-out clothes. Kipling shakes their hands and issues soft wishes of smooth travels on the road to their next safe house. Where? Oklahoma City? Kansas? Denver?

I turn to Lucía. She pores over a map of Texas beside Ava, who grips her own, their fingers tracing routes and cities where Lucía’s family could be waiting. Wichita Falls, Abilene, Lubbock.

Finally, they each fold their paper guides and put them safely away. We hover with awkward gestures, not sure how to say good-bye. We wish each other luck. I pull Lucía in and hug her. An ordinary human act I’ve never done with anyone outside my family. I could never get too close.

“Come with us,” I hear myself asking her. She shakes her head. Of course not. She has her own journey.

“Recuerda. No tenemos miedo,” Lucía says to me. Remember. We show no fear.





AVA

When I first laid eyes on Dorothy, Kipling’s ill-favored baby-blue pickup truck, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of admiration. The rusty old thing looks like it’s been blessed with the luck of a cat clinging to its nine lives. Various pieces—the solar-paneled roof, doors, truck bed, everything—clearly originate from different sources. The truck’s been torn apart by God knows what and welded back together so many times, yet somehow she still continues to purr as she carries us valiantly across the Texas desert.