Javier spoke English, but never around other people. Ricky had learned that Mrs. Young was his cousin. They had the same grandfather. They were both born in Texas, but Javier came to Mexico to take care of his grandmother when he left the military—he’d been in the Army for six years out of high school—and never returned to the States.

“It’s a simple life. A good life. I don’t need a lot.”

Ricky thought there was a lot more than that to why Javier never returned to the States, but he never asked. He was just grateful that Javier hadn’t sent him back when he discovered Ricky in his truck.

Javier lived in a small village north of Ciudad Victoria. He often went to the city to work and sometimes took Ricky with him. Once, he told Ricky, “When you want to go home, I’ll take you. Anytime, no questions. Until then, you listen to me. Mexico is not Texas.”

Ricky had learned quickly to keep his head down and do what Javier said. He didn’t want anyone to find him, and he didn’t want to bring trouble to Javier. He’d only been here three months, but he already knew Spanish. Not a lot, but enough to get by. Javier was teaching him more. He called it immersion. Sometimes, he would only speak in Spanish and Ricky had to figure out what he meant by the context.

Javier didn’t volunteer information about Ricky, but when his priest asked—Javier went to church every week—Javier said, “The boy needed a home.” He didn’t ask again.

Ricky helped Javier with the truck, handing him tools and holding bolts and screws. He almost always knew what tool he needed, and Javier was pleased he learned quickly.

Ricky wanted to learn, because if he kept busy he got tired, and if he was tired he could sleep.

But his sleep was always interrupted by nightmares.

He watched Javier, absorbed in what he was doing, but not really thinking about it.

All he could think about was his grandma.

She’d answered the phone yesterday when he called her. Javier didn’t think it was a good idea, but he took Ricky into town after church. A friend of Javier’s had a phone, and Javier gave him twenty American dollars to use it.

Ricky should never have called. His grandma thought he was his mom, called him Denise. Of course, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He just wanted to hear her voice. He just wanted to … he didn’t know. He was homesick, but he couldn’t go home. He was scared that the bad cop would hurt his grandparents. They were old, and they wouldn’t understand why Ricky was scared. His grandpa had been in the hospital last year, and his mom kept saying he couldn’t have any stress or his heart would give out.