Wind Therapy - A.J. Downey Page 0,3

it, and he was the only thing I had left in this world that I cared about.

The wretched old woman who cared for us after my dad, then my mother, had died was indeed our grandmother – my father’s mother, but she certainly wasn’t any familia of mine.

“How old are you?” their leader demanded, and I raised my chin, defiantly.

“Twenty,” I answered, and it was almost true. Just a couple more months.

He looked me up and down with those dark blue eyes of his, his gaze electric and raising the fine hairs on the backs of my arms and behind my neck. I didn’t flinch.

“Oh, yeah? Let’s see some ID,” he said, and I cursed silently but produced the rectangle of laminated tough material out of my back pocket and went to him with it. His eyes connected with mine and I tried to keep the desperation out of my eyes, my heart crying out, Please! Please take me with you!

He gave me a sharp look, and my heart squeezed painfully in my chest. I was scared he would call me out on my age, that he would spit on the ground and call me a liar and that would be it. I could see the cold calculation in his eyes and I just wanted him to please, please say yes. Take me away from this place and these people to someplace populated where I could find something, anything, to do other than live under Abuela’s thumb.

I wanted a better life, away from here, where I could get a place, a life of my own and eventually bring my little brother to live with me.

“I could use an extra set of hands for something for the next month,” he said. “She wants to go; I can bring her back on the next run – we’ll see if she can square the debt in that time.”

Something in my chest loosened and I tried not to sag with relief.

“No,” Abuela said, and I turned.

“Why not?” I snarled in Spanish. “Why not sell me to the Gringos? It’s not like I have a use for you anyway!”

She opened her mouth. “I said, no.” Her tone held the sharp edge of finality and I turned my face so I wouldn’t have to look at her for whatever cruelty was about to come out of her fat mouth next. “You don’t want this girl. She is nothing but trouble. You could pick any girl here for whatever you want—”

Maverick’s calm, cool voice cut her off, “I did. I picked her.” To me, he said, “Go pack some shit, put on some better shoes, and make it fuckin’ quick, we got someplace to be.”

She tried to argue with him as I rushed to comply, handing the pitcher and cups to Frida who stood by struck dumb by what was happening. Abuela continued to argue with him as I swept past her into our house to go to my room and gather my things, but he was a force to be reckoned with. I stood speechless in the hall, ears straining for a mere moment as he fired back at my grandmother and waited, heart thundering, blood rushing in my ears, drowning out everything else they were saying which spurred me into action.

I rushed into my room and took up my old hand-me-down but much-loved backpack which was already packed with my favorite clothes. I did it every month when they came. It had become a ritual; I packed every night the night before they came in high hopes that were as thin as a spider’s web and just as fragile.

I took out my diary from its secret hiding place in one of the floor vents, along with a bandana stuffed with my mother’s jewelry I had stolen from her when I was thirteen and hidden so she wouldn’t sell it for more drugs.

“Marisol, what are you doing?” My little brother stood in my room behind me as I stuffed the book and small wrapped bundle in the top of my pack. I sat on my bedroom floor, in front of the closet, and took off my wedge sandals and shoved them into the top of my pack before I cinched it closed.

“I’m going away for a while, Mateo, but don’t you worry. Abuela will take good care of you and when I can, I will come get you. I promise,” I said, shoving my bare feet into my boots, wrapping the laces around the hooks, and