What can YOU say in six sentences?
It was the first food he’d seen in eight days and he ate it like he had something against it, like it had wronged him. They sat in the diner and the Marshall watched the boy maraud around the plate of chicken and corn and potatoes, shoes squealing against clean tile and the tinny stutter of porcelain against itself and occasionally the projectile laughter of a trucker creasing the lower din.
“They do anything to you, hurt you any way…uh…what is it…daño?”
“No, no le” said the boy, a small biscuit fugitive escaping the destruction going on in his mouth.
They finished with a couple slices of cherry pie and got into the car and drove out toward the swollen, jagged redness of the caprock and it occurred to him that the boy wouldn’t have told him if they had hurt him. On 180 in the morning, the sunbathed Guadalupes glowering down at the salt flats of the Delaware basin, the boy in the passenger seat like a stoic coal-haired prayer, he wondered if it wasn’t nigh on murder to take him back to Mexico.