Page 77 of Off the Rails
“Mucho gusto.”
She shook his bandaged hand. “I’d like to go home now.”
“So soon? We only just met.”
“I’ve been here a week.”
“Have you been treated well?”
“No.”
He didn’t appear surprised. “Perhaps I can reimburse you for your trouble.”
“And for my silence?”
“I am very rich,” he allowed.
“Not rich enough to hire a real doctor.”
“You are not a real doctor?”
“I’m a veterinarian.”
“I see,” he said, giving her a closer study. Then he shut his eyes with a low grown.
She wondered if his corneas were damaged. “I have morphine.”
“Anything but that.”
“It’s all I’ve got, and you’ll be in agony without it.”
“Will you sing instead?Duerme, duerme?”
“It’s Durme, Durme.”
“Yes. That.”
She began to sing, off-key and tentative. It was a poor substitute for opiates, but he didn’t complain. After about a dozen repeats, he drifted off. She stood and added a small amount of morphine to his IV drip. It would help him rest. His recovery would be unbearable if he refused drugs. He’d wake up every few minutes, writhing in pain. Either that, or he’d slip into a coma and die. She didn’t know which outcome to hope for.
Would they really release her if he got better? Or would she get buried with his dead body?
She went to the cot in the corner and lay down, too exhausted to consider the macabre possibilities.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of barking dogs.
—
Armando traveled all night.
It was slow going from Tijuana to Mexicali. He had to avoid the tolls, which meant driving on back roads, far off the beaten path. Before he headed south, he ditched the red car for an old gray truck. Unfortunately, his new ride was also slower and less reliable. It gave up the ghost on a long stretch of highway between Mexicali and Puerto Peñasco.
He walked until dawn. When the sun rose, he collapsed behind some mesquite bushes that smelled like roadkill but offered shade. He slept facedown in the gravel for several hours, too exhausted to find a better shelter.
“Despiértate,”Alma whispered. “Sarai needs you.”
He jolted awake, shoving at the pillow of rocks. It took him about a minute to remember where he was and what he was doing. He could hardly rememberwhohe was anymore. Armando Castillo was gone. There was nothing left, just this husk. The rotten-carcass stench got stronger as he rolled over and wiped the debris from his eyes.
No wonder. He was lying on top of a dead rabbit. It was flat and desiccated, like a piece of cardboard with bits of fur attached. Crawling away from the bushes, he rose to his feet and looked around. He was on the side of a desert highway. Cars whizzed by at regular intervals. The sun blazed down on his dusty head.
