Falling With Grace

I placed my feet on the stones and walked, my right knee screaming for respite, yet my body urged me forward for dry land.

Twenty steps later, I crashed onto solid ground, rocks jutting into my good side, my vision swirling.

I filled my lungs until they nearly burst, each inhalation lending sharp spikes of pain into my rib cage.

I made it.

I’d finally escaped, but for how long?

The night stretched on before me, crickets singing their chorus as if chaos and murder hadn’t occurred—as if I hadn’t witnessed everyone perish.

The river flowed on in silence, its trance paying homage to my fallen friends and the pseudo tranquility in the air.

Miguel wasn’t around.

Had he not followed me?

Did Miguel write me off as another casualty to the Rio Grande?

Was it that easy?

Muscling my way up the grassy hill, I settled at the top, my dislocated arm a hindrance.

I laid on my back, my focus on the full moon, and stuck a small round stick between my teeth, my heart jackhammering in my chest.

Despite my throbbing head, clicking rib, and banged-up knee, it was the tearing agony in my shoulder that made me grunt out a cry as I lifted my limp arm abovemy head. With my elbow pointing upward as if scratching my back, I pulled until it popped back into place.

Shards of glass replaced the burn, and black spots clouded my vision. My lungs sucked in shallow breaths.

I couldn’t breathe. The pain sliced through my chest like a knife wound digging in deep.

My limbs slackened, the stick fell from my mouth as I jerked, and the world faded around me.

5

Grace

Ilevitated off the ground, my arms crossed over my belly, my legs dangling. The earth moved beneath me like I was on a Merry-Go-Round at full speed.

Nausea twisted in my gut, and acid bubbled at the back of my tongue.

Deep, entangled voices writhed throughout my consciousness. Doors slammed, the ground trembled—the will to fight dwindled with each passing moment.

A cool, soft cloth dragged across my brow, and the gentle cooing of a woman’s voice eased my nerves, yet I jerked from her touch, my eyelids opening in a flash.

The elderly woman blinked at me with widened eyes, her wrinkled, dark face touched by the sun and hard work.

A washcloth dripped excess water down her delicate wrist, which my fingers dug into.

“You don’t have to fear me.” Her voice dipped low.

I frowned.

“¿Hablas inglés o español?”

A man’s voice drifted through the cracked door across the room. My gaze darted to the source, then back to her.

Where am I?