Ricky hadn’t gone to school in three years, but from the beginning Javi said he needed an education. Every morning for three hours Javi had Ricky studying. Javi came up with a program that included a lot of reading but also some math and science problems. Most of what Ricky knew about science was because he read about it. Once a month, Javi went to Ciudad Victoria for three days. Ricky didn’t know what he did—it might not have been legal—but he’d come back with books from a used-book store. Those days, when Javi was gone and it was Ricky and the dog, Ricky thought about going home. But in the end, he realized that he would rather be here and safe than home and scared.

It was a nice day, so Ricky took the book he was reading—the fourth Harry Potter book, The Goblet of Fire—to the bench down the hill from Javi’s place. Javi didn’t care much about what he read, as long as he read for an hour every day. Ricky read a lot—a lot more than an hour. The book was very worn and half the cover was missing and there were stains on many pages, but Ricky didn’t care. He’d read the other books, but Javi hadn’t been able to find number four until last week, when he went to town. He brought it back for Ricky, and Ricky was so excited he almost cried. He was savoring the story, but he was almost done. When he was done, he’d read the whole series over from beginning to end.

Reading Harry Potter reminded him of his sister Becky. She had the whole series, brand-new and in pristine condition. She’d read him the first book over the summer, when it was too hot to go out and do anything. Ricky missed his family, but he missed Becky most of all. She liked him. His parents loved him, Tori tolerated him, but Becky really liked him and he liked spending time with her. She did things with him she didn’t have to do—like reading him Harry Potter and playing video games when no one else wanted to.

He thought about Becky a lot. He was sad, but not like before. Javi said he had perspective and time. Maybe. Or maybe he was just so used to the sadness it felt normal.

He heard footsteps and froze. They lived in a safe, remote area and no one bothered Javi, but Javi had warned him about bandits and kidnappers and drug mules who might cut through these hills. Under no circumstances could anyone think he was American. Ricky’s Spanish was really good now, and while he didn’t read it all that well, he could speak and understand it perfectly. Javi even taught him how to talk with an accent, so he’d sound almost native.

“Ricky.”