The coyote assured them there would be water stations set in the desert by kindly Americanos, but the only one they’d come across in a hundred kilometers of walking was hacked into ruin, the tank shot full of holes and dry as a bone.
Gustavo felt his tongue swelling in his mouth, the sun heavy as a blanket on his neck and shoulders.
He shook the remaining gallon jug of water, mostly gone. The children had long since stopped crying, trudging in silence, one weary foot in front of the other.
The mountains swayed in the heat, never getting closer.