They arrived in Capaz around three o’clock in the morning. Santiago held the
sle eping Alegría with her arms draped around his shoulders and her head nestled
into his neck. Even as he shifted her weight to follow María Dolores, who carried
two of the three loaded backpacks out of the last bus, the little girl didn’t stir.
For a second he missed his three cousins. Even when they would shriek and cause
mayhem all day long, they would always cuddle against him at night.
Then he remembered the screams and continuous accusations from his t í a .
She never hugged him. No adult did anymore.
The bulbs in many of the streetlamps had burned out, while others had been
smashed, making the trek through the unfamiliar town unnerving. From what
he could see, the town was nothing more than run-down shacks closed up for
the night. Heavy iron grates or sheets of metal blocked the storefronts. Santiago
started scouting for a safe place for them to stay until sunup, some alleyway or
even a dumpster if it would ke ep the l a d r o n e s away. Two gunshots went o close
by. Santiago huddled closer to María Dolores, half wanting to protect her, and
half to be protected by her.
María Dolores looked at her phone for directions. She seemed to have a plan,
even though Santiago didn’t know what it was. They turned down a street to a
tavern with a ickering green light that alternated between half-lit words. If it
was anything like the tavern his uncle frequented, the place probably o ered beer
and beds.
The inside smelled of spilled alcohol, vomit, and unwashed humans. The
bartender, bald exc ept for some tufts of gray hair above his ears, looked up from
his conversation with the only patron and jerked his chin upward to ask what
they wanted.
“A room,” María Dolores said. Santiago noticed the lone man on the bar
stool eyeing them. Or more speci cally, eyeing María Dolores. Hopefully this
would be a place where rooms came with locks.
“How many beds?” the bartender asked.
“Two.”
The bartender grabbed keys from under the bar and told his comrade he’d be
back in a minute. As they walked away, Santiago still felt the other man’s eyes on
their backs.
The stairs creaked. Any second they’d fall through and land right back in the
middle of the bar. Santiago shifted Alegría to ke ep her from slipping.
On the landing the bartender pointed out the bathroom and then the shower
room. “Showers are extra, and you have to borrow the key from the bar. This is
my place, so if you need anything else, the name’s José.”
Don José opened the door to a bedroom with two beds squeezed together in
the shape of an L and no room for anything else beyond the space needed to
enter. They received the key, and María Dolores handed him a folded banknote.
Already what she’d paid for Santiago racked up to more than he remembered
any family member spending on him.
María Dolores dumped the bags on one of the beds and eased Alegría from
Santiago’s arms to carry the sle eping child to the bathroom.
“Dead-bolt the door behind me and don’t let anyone in,” she whispered. “A
place like this, bedbugs will be the least of our worries.”
Santiago took o his shoes and plopped onto the free bed. It creaked when he
shifted, his bottom sank into a hole in the middle of the mattress, and it smelled
of old cigarettes. But it had a pillow. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d
sl ept with a pillow, even a at one like this one. He stayed awake long enough to
see the two return from the bathroom and hear the click of the door lock behind
them.