And that’s when he knew they were going to kill them all. He didn’t know why, or what crime they had committed, but now that the shooting had started, it couldn’t end without all of them dead. Dead and buried and rotting somewhere in a deep hole, piled on top of each other and covered in dirt or sand or trash or shit. The men out there would see to that.

They had to, to bury the shame of what they’d done.

This night would never end until it swallowed them all.

Neva was screaming, both his name and Batista’s, and this time it was he who grabbed her hand, holding it tight. He told her over all the noise that it was going to be okay, that he would get her out of there no matter what. Nothing would happen to her.

She looked into his face and he saw that she believed him.

A bullet gently moved the air, nearly kissed his face. Like soft wings against his skin. It reminded him of Neva’s touch, that very first touch.

These are only moths like those I used to catch in Blanco. They cannot hurt me.

Nada me puede hacer daño.

He told her to stay low and behind him, to move only when he moved. If he fell, she was to keep running and not look back. He couldn’t help himself and quickly kissed her between the eyes and whispered that he loved her, but he wasn’t sure she heard him, and that was okay. At least he’d said the words, finally releasing them. Their weight would no longer burden him or slow him down and he would not die with them heavy on his lips.

Voy a volar por los dos de nosotros.

He squeezed her hand again, not to hold her back as she had done for him, but to let her know it was finally time to run. To run and never stop.

To fly. Para volar.

And they did.

II

Juan Abrego Carrión kissed his little Zita and thought about murder.

Death. Muerte.