The Condemned: Part Five

A Serialized Novella

A Catholic church in Chamisal, N.M., circa July 1940. (Russell Lee/Library of Congress)

XXII

The cuts relentlessly burned Francisco’s back, forcing him awake. There would be no sleep, no escape from his current, anxious state. He stared out into the silent darkness and wondered if anything was alive in the desert. Will I be buried there tonight? A nameless mound in a nameless land? No one spoke while the truck rattled toward San Juan Diego’s outskirts. The silence amplified José’s wispy breaths — which struggled past his front teeth. Francisco nearly broke down. His abuela’s sobs resurfaced to his mind.

Maria observed Francisco’s remorse, despite his efforts to restrain himself. She empathized with the young man — even though he was a prisoner of his own actions. He was a lost child of God. He needed to know he was loved. She debated reaching out and patting his clenched, coarse hand, as if she was approaching a skittish creature. Not now, she eventually decided. Let him be. She decided to pray a rosary for her aunt and grandmother’s protection, as well as for the Priest. “Help me do what I need to do,” she repeated between Hail Marys.

In the truck’s side mirror, Francisco watched San Juan Diego’s lights dwindling. He felt his world — the one he loathed for all his life — was finally disappearing off the map. The thought now sickened him. Without cohesion to his words, he prayed the Priest would protect the town and his grandmother. Yet, he still couldn’t fathom the stranger’s courage — “Why would he defend that lifeless patch of ground? He must know it’s certain death,” he thought. The guilt and shame plunged him further into the desert’s silent darkness. He couldn’t have three dead on his withering conscience.

“We have to go back,” he spoke, the words falling undistinguishably like a grain of sand in the desert. The bartender kept his foot on the gas. Maria bowed her head in prayer. José continued wispily breathing.

“We have to go back!” he emphatically stated.

The bartender whipped his head to the backseat. The statement cracked Maria’s contemplation, perking her attention. If Francisco returned to San Juan Diego, she knew she would accompany him. A fire blazed within her.

“We can’t go back. Your brother needs help,” the bartender frustratingly said, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

“I can’t let Father face Lobo alone. He tried to warn me — I just didn’t listen,” he remorsefully sighed.

“I want to go back too,” Maria chimed.

“Or we all could! And your brother will die if he’s not treated. I’m not driving back now, and you certainly can’t make the walk in your condition,” the bartender sarcastically responded.

“Pull over!” Francisco commanded.

The bartender cut the steering wheel, swerving to the side of the highway. Francisco fumbled for the door handle and, once opening it, nearly fell on his face. Maria jumped out of the truck, lifting the young man. The bartender doubtfully shook his head. He wondered what these two were thinking.

“His actions will be for nothing.”

“No, it’s me they’re after. Not José. Just take him to the hospital. I can’t let that priest answer for my wrongs.”

“And he won’t be alone,” Maria affirmed.

Lowering his head, the bartender debated whether driving them back. But, nervous, he knew he couldn’t waste time. The boy in the passenger seat needed immediate attention. Francisco, meanwhile, lugged his way to José. Through the window, he watched his younger brother with a torn heart — could he abandon his brother now? Or had he done all he could? He petted José’s head, which was drenched in sweat. It reminded him of a cloudy past because no particular memory came to mind. The lack of a specific moment weighed on him. He believed he failed as an older brother.

“I’m sorry. Please God, let him live,” he prayed. He kissed José’s head — wondering if this would be his final act toward his younger brother. The melancholic gesture touched Maria. After Francisco stepped away from the truck, the bartender opened his mouth, on the cusp of asking the pair to reconsider, but knew it was futile. He dejectedly shifted the truck’s gears and blazed off down the highway.

Francisco couldn’t watch the truck disappear from sight. There was nothing further he could do for José. He had to focus his strength. Yet every step was sore, and his back continued burning. Maria walked along beside him realizing the trek pained the young man. But she saw a difference in his innocent eyes. Even though they were misty, she noticed a fire being lit — a newfound determination she hadn’t witnessed before in him.

“What’s our plan?” she asked.

“I haven’t thought that through just yet,” Francisco responded as he continued onward toward San Juan Diego.

“You’re a foolish boy,” she sarcastically grinned.

For the first time, Francisco began to feel a deeper kinship with Maria, smirking at her response. He admired her for accompanying him on, what he believed, would be the longest pilgrimage of his life. He wondered if this moment was a new beginning.

From out of the desert, a gust of wind pushed at his back, quickening his pace. The lights appeared closer — blazing more brightly — than he had ever seen before.

“I think we’re both foolish,” he quipped.

XXIII

Lobo marched into the church as a conqueror, eyeing every inch of the interior. The silence gnawed at him, as well as the Priest kneeling in front of the altar. Instead, he imagined sawing off the wooden carving’s head and carrying it around on a pike. He chuckled at the thought.

His shadow — enlarged by the caravan’s headlights — engulfed the Priest, who remained contemplative, reflecting on martyrs of the faith. Even of the other Francisco. Who does this priest think he is with his back to me? Lobo wondered.

“Hello, Lucas,” the Priest finally said shattering the silence.

Making the sign of the cross, the Priest arose and turned to face his younger brother. Lobo’s eyes widened from fear, yet as cold as the abyss. The Priest nearly wept seeing what his brother had become. He looked dead.

Lobo incessantly scratched his facial scar, which burned as if pierced by a cattle brander. The last time he saw his brother, he was fleeing the murder scene of his father. He didn’t envision this day would come — and not here, in the remote wilderness. No weakness could be shown. With a twist of his neck, he forced his widened eyes to narrow and stretched his being over the Priest.

“Are you still a coward?” Lobo snarled.

“I’m surprised you’re in a house of God. After all this time,” the Priest stoically responded. He remained fixed in front of the altar. His cassock quietly swaying with the wind seeping in from the open doors.

“I could say the same to you. I didn’t realize the Church would take any old rat as their leaders. But then again, that’s what the Church does best — leading sheep to wolves.”

Lobo circled the Priest, scanning his older brother from head to toe, searching for a weakness. The Priest couldn’t tell if sweat or saliva dripped over Lucas’ lips.

“I know why you’re here. They’re not in San Juan Diego.”

“I’ll find them eventually. But honestly, I think I found something more worthwhile.”

Lobo stopped prowling the church, planting himself in front of the Priest. The coldness of his stare. The ash from his nostrils. Is this still the young boy from the photograph? Can he still be saved, the Priest wondered. The thought eviscerated him. He wished the Lord hadn’t led him to this moment. But it was the only path that lay ahead — he had to walk it.

“I’ve been looking for you Lucas,” the Priest sorrowfully said.

Lobo hissed, shrinking away. Hearing his name, the last remnants of his former life, was torturous.

“Don’t say my name. You don’t have the right.”

The blood. The empty eyes. The voiceless prayer of their father haunted the space between the brothers. The Priest observed Lobo tentatively strutting down the aisle toward the door, trying to ignore the patricide. His body was hunched, and he rubbed his temples as if to pause the gears from turning.

“We needed father dead and off our trail. But only I had the courage to pull the trigger. Not you. I paid the price,” he brandished the facial scar, which he scratched. His eyes steamed like water hitting magma. “What price did you pay? It doesn’t look like any.”

For years, the Priest prayed to find his younger brother — hearing whispers and rumors from inmates during his time in prison ministry. Yet he chased an apparition. Until now. God answered his prayer. He asked the Holy Spirit to guide him, especially when choosing his next words. God can bring Lucas back.

“I came here to find you. I want to ask for forgiveness, for what happened between us.”

Lucas remained hunched, his back toward his brother. His muscles twitched, as if two spirits battled within him, though his nostrils didn’t flare. He looked cadaverous. The sight nearly ruptured the Priest’s concentration. He withheld the tears.

“You’re right. I didn’t protect you from this world’s evils. I haven’t been able to forgive myself for what I’ve done to you. And now, to finally find you, in this state — please, forgive me brother. But you didn’t have to kill.”

Lobo’s eyes rolled over dark as he glided toward his brother. He tightly clenched his fists, digging the nails into his palms — to the point where blood droplets dripped on the stone floor. Within an instant, the Priest collided with the ground. His cheek felt the vengeful power of Lobo’s fist. His own blood spattered on the floor, merging with his brother’s. He gazed at the wooden crucifix behind him, into the Lord’s final moments. Brushing off his cassock, the Priest stood straight, projecting an unfazed, determined demeanor, defying Lobo’s intimidation.

“If you think you’ll convince me to flee, you’re mistaken. I will not abandon these people. And I won’t abandon you,” the Priest said.

Lobo could not formulate words — only undistinguishable grunts, emitting a molten breath. He smacked the Priest again, pressing him against the stones with the heel of his boot. The Priest struggled to stand, but he felt another shove in the back. His head knocked against a pew from the force. Warm blood trickled down over his left eye. As the Priest tried to wipe the blood away, Lobo yanked the cassock collar, dragging his older brother across the stone floor and throwing him into the dust in front of the church. With dominating steps, Lobo stepped over the Priest toward the cartel caravan. Their high beams blinded the Priest. His brother was only a silhouetted shadow, yet his sharp teeth defied nature for they brightly glowed.

Mocking the Priest, Lobo outstretched his hands with his palms upward. He turned toward his men and the onlookers peeking through their windows, prowling to the main street.

“You don’t know who this man really is,” he shouted. “He is not a holy man. He is a coward, like the cowards who came here before. He cares more about superstition than reality. And he has put your town in danger. But if you tell me the location of two boys — Francisco and José — I will let you live.”

The Priest noticed another silhouette — Roberto, perhaps — carrying a canister. The bright lights revealed it to be gasoline. He’s going to set the church on fire, the Priest feared. He lunged to knock the canister over, but a force from behind smacked his face into the dirt. Raising his head, the Priest sensed the cold presence of gun lingering at his skull, while hearing the swish-swooshing of liquid poured inside the church. He then noticed his blood seep into the desert — disappearing without a trace.

“Your town will suffer the same fate as this church,” Lobo ended his ultimatum with devilish flare. Motioning his crony aside, he slid back to the Priest and grabbed his collar to restrict any movements. While the Priest anticipated the impending horror, the Perros leader dug into his pocket, pulling out a lighter and cigarette. Each step was done purposely: lighting the end, dragging as long as he could. He reveled in the terror.

“What did Jesus say? I will destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days?” Lobo growled through a cloud of smoke. The embers reflected off his eyes, masking them in a vivid reddish glow. The Priest foresaw Lobo’s move — watching his brother’s gears maliciously grind onward. He tried knocking the cigarette out of Lobo’s hand, but he was too late — the flicked cigarette sailed into the church with its embers nearly disappearing in the aisle.

A few seconds went by. Nothing. The anticipation gnawed the Priest’s heart, while his brother’s wordless, yet nefarious essence intensified, engulfing the air around them. Then a pew caught fire. Like a wildfire, the church — all at once — erupted in flames with the radiating heat singing every molecule. Lobo snickered with delight as the flames’ glow danced on his teeth. Through the inferno, the Priest saw flashes of the crucifix — crying to him. Save me, a voice said.

With disregard for his own life, the Priest jerked his body with all his might, loosening Lobo’s grip, and sprinted into the enflamed church. The heat was more intense than anything he ever experienced. His lungs shrunk from the amount of smoke he gulped, causing him to cough incessantly, and his eyes burned even though he squinted. The ash from the pews caked the cassock in a gray dust. He weaved through the flames, dodging blasts whipping near his face. To his surprise, the flames hadn’t reached the altar — or the tabernacle. He rushed over to retrieve the consecrated Eucharist, but burned his fingers as the tabernacle absorbed the heat. Without hesitating, and the flames fast-approaching, the Priest ripped the bottom of his cassock, wrapped his hands, and grabbed the ciborium. He scanned a path to safety, away from the cartel, but the rectory and sacristy were shrouded with debris and fire. The only way was through the front door — back to Lobo and his men. His squinted eyes looked up at the crucifix, now blackened by soot while the wood curled from the heat. This was the path.

Like lightning, the Priest bolted from the altar, weaving past the flames. As he entered the open space in front of church, he knelt on the ground, coughing up black dirt. He clutched the ciborium. The scene perplexed Lobo.

“You went back in there, for what? Wafers. That is funny.”

The Priest, panting, slowly raised his head to look at his brother’s empty expression.

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand. What’s bread worth? More than a brother?”

“That’s not just bread. You knew that once.”

Lobo scoffed, drowning any memory of attending Mass with their father by instead marveling at the inferno. He even ignored the Priest, albeit briefly, until Roberto leaned into his ear.

“There is their abuela.”

Lobo’s fixation on his work intensified. There is now another link to those deserting rats, he thought. Meanwhile, the words, even though spoken softly, tolled in the Priest’s ears. He promised to protect Francisco’s grandmother — he had to find strength. Looking behind, he saw the crucifix, which was now engulfed in flames.

“I told you, they’re not here. And she doesn’t know anything. It’s me you want anyway,” he defiantly said, even through panting breaths. The remark distracted Lobo, whose lost eyes — once masked by the raging fire — turned toward his older brother. His pupils shrank to their narrowest point, and his brow protruded, darkened by the shadows.

“I cut the tongues out of liars,” he growled at the Priest. “I could send an army there now and burn her alive. But maybe you’re right — better to let her live to draw them out.”

Lobo craned his head toward Roberto. “Guard the house. They may go back there. If you don’t see them by morning, then take her.” With the order, Roberto slipped away down the main road. Within moments, the Priest felt Lobo kick his hands, knocking the ciborium away. A weight dropped in his heart, as the Priest tried scrambling for it, but his cassock was yanked again by Lobo.

“Come quietly,” the cold voice commanded. The Priest knew what his brother meant. He had to remain composed. The fires licked higher into the night sky, and the smoke shrouded the stars. The church looked like a gate to hell. But the consecrated Eucharist — for now — was safe. Now, he had to focus. The townsfolk cannot witness me falter. I cannot falter. Lord, I know you’re with me at all times, even now.

Even though he was battered, the Priest pushed himself up from the ground, wiped off the gray soot, and straightened his posture. He held in every urge to cough as he stared directly into Lobo’s soul, which made his younger brother uneasy.

“Thy will be done,” the Priest prayed while calmly walking to the truck bed without being forced. Another cartel crony hopped in tying the Priest’s hands, while another aimed a gun. However, the Priest appeared unfazed. Surrendering himself willingly was either stupid or courageous, but for Lobo, the Priest’s action cut his ego. He could not let his brother hold any power over him. To distract himself, he began concocting ways to torture and humiliate the Priest. “He will break before the sun is up,” Lobo believed.

Lobo leapt into the truck bed, catching glimpses of the multiple eyes watching him, including the older woman — who now stood in the threshold of her doorway. Amusedly, only to himself, the cartel leader smirked while aiming his finger at her. He fired several imaginary shots before blowing out the invisible gun smoke. The older woman did not flinch. She stood there like a rock. Lobo’s smirk morphed into fury.

“You have until morning!”

The hive reignited their engines and peeled away from the fiery church toward the mountains. Although his eyes still singed from running into the flames, the Priest witnessed the older woman, Maria’s grandmother and aunt, along with other silhouettes, running toward the church throwing buckets of water. Precious water in the dry village. He was moved by their dedication of faith.

“We are not orphaned.”

XXIV

Francisco was in disbelief. Maria nearly wept. But there was no time as the church roof caved, despite the efforts of the townsfolk. Maria ran toward her aunt and grandmother, grabbing buckets of water to toss on the unquenchable inferno, but to no avail. The church structure was beyond saving.

The older woman sat on the ground, hunched in the middle of the street, tenderly clutching the ciborium as if it were a newborn. The object reflected the fire’s light creating an illuminating aura, nearly blinding Francisco. He pitied the older woman, but was mesmerized by how her aged hands clung to the container. He wondered if it was heirloom for she treated it motherly.

“What happened,” Maria asked as she lifted the older woman to her feet.

The older woman silently labored to walk a few paces. Through dense tears, she despairingly looked at Francisco, then back at the church reduced to rubble. The wounds on his back burned.

“The cartel came. They were looking for him —” the older woman darted her eyes toward Francisco. “But the Father didn’t tell them. For that, they burned the church.”

“Is he still alive?” Maria anxiously responded.

“They took him. They drove off that way,” the older woman pointed in the direction of the mountains. Maria hugged the older woman, who was on the verge of collapsing. Though his legs were sore from the trek back to town, Francisco rushed over to grab the container, fearing the older woman would drop the precious item in the dirt. Yet, she hesitated — reluctantly presenting the ciborium to him. The item rested heavier in his hands than he anticipated. The aura persisted. Something spoke to him, like the contents were more vital than an heirloom. But he refused to remove the lid, instead returning the object to the older woman. He could feel her read his soul, which struggled to reconcile his actions.

“You have innocent eyes,” she pointedly stated. Francisco wondered why she said it with such an inflection. He felt humbled.

“There’s not much time. They will kill him,” Maria said, breaking his contemplation.

“Don’t worry, if they went off toward the mountains, it might be where I met Lobo earlier. We might be able to help him. My car is at Roberto’s —”

“I know where that is. It’s only a fifteen minute walk from here.”

The comment surprised Francisco, but he didn’t give it too much thought. However, as they began down the road, the older woman called out to them.

“There’s another thing Francisco.”

A weight plummeted in his stomach. He knew in his heart what she was about to say.

“My grandmother?”

“Roberto went off separately.”

Roberto. That animal. The rage boiled within Francisco as he marched away, kicking up dust with every step. Maria chased after him — she feared the foolish boy would surely get himself killed.

“Francisco, you can’t go like this. You’re badly hurt. And Roberto is —”

“Stronger? Yes. But I can’t let him near her. This is all my fault. I should have never done this. Become part of this evil. I let Roberto convince me — and I convinced José. Look where it’s gotten all of us. You lost a cousin. My brother may be lost. We’ve lost our hope.”

For the first time, the tears he held back cracked through the dam. Fear replaced rage, as he cupped his head into his hands. The image of a skittish creature returned to Maria. She reached out her hand, wondering how he would react. She braced for the worst. Without any resistance, she removed his hands that hid the sorrowful eyes. Suddenly, the Priest’s comforting words from hours earlier swelled in her.

“You silly boy. There is hope. Open your eyes. Don’t you see. Look around you. These people have faith, faith that life will be better, that there is something greater than all of us can ever imagine. Father told me there’s a great strength in all of us. We will know when the time comes to make our stand. Our stand is now.”

“I don’t want him hurt you too. Or anyone else for that matter. This is my fight.”

“No, I’m coming with you. We’re doing this together,” she determinedly stated.

Francisco saw the fiery spirit blaze within her. It was brighter than any fire, even that which burned the church. Nearly as bright as the object the older woman clutched. He knew he couldn’t stop her. Her spirit was contagious.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

The pair raced toward Roberto’s house. Francisco couldn’t shake the image of the older woman and the object she held. He felt embarrassed not understanding its significance, but asked Maria anyway, assuming she might know.

“Maria, what was that object?”

“What object?”

“The thing the older woman held. It seemed precious to her.”

“It is. The consecrated Eucharist was in there.”

Francisco did not understand. The questioning further confused him, but he pressed on if only to hear Maria talk. Her voice enraptured his budding soul.

“You mean the bread?” he continued.

“It’s not bread.”

“Then what is it?”

Maria paused her steps and turned toward Francisco, whose curiosity fueled her own contemplation. How can I describe the Real Presence, she wondered. With an endearing smile, she simply stated, “Life.” Francisco remained confused, but the young woman said the word with conviction. He longed for a new life — one he could share with his younger brother and abuela. Perhaps even a life with Maria.

The pair continued on in silence until they reached Roberto’s garage. To Francisco’s dismay, his car was not in the driveway. He had an inclination Roberto must’ve taken it, since Francisco escaped with the Jeep. Despair crept back into his mind, weighing his tongue.

“What now?” he said defeatedly. His feet throbbed. His back burned. His energy depleted. He knew walking the miles to his abuela’s home was a fool’s errand — and time was of the essence. The abuela’s sobs swarmed again. Meanwhile, Maria sprinted to the back of the garage. Turning the corner and checking for any dogs, the car she hid in was still on the lot. She peered through the window and noticed the keys dangling in the ignition. A wind graced her back.

“Francisco,” she yelled. His head hopelessly perked, as he dejectedly waddled to Maria’s call. Suddenly keys landed in his palms. They glistened in the faint moonlight. A fire reignited his spirits, as Maria hopped in the passenger seat.

“C’mon!” Maria shouted.

Francisco leapt into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. To his surprise, the engine gloriously howled into the night air. As he gripped the wheel, he knew danger lied ahead, but a new blood flowed in his veins.

XXV

The darkness camouflaged the mountains. Only the weakened moonlight revealed any outlines of rocks and peaks. Craning his neck, the Priest reflected on the climactic clash between the landmasses that forged the dominating mass — and how mountains served as God’s stage in the human drama. It was on a mountain God spoke to Moses. Where Jesus revealed his true nature. Where He redeemed humanity for all time. It was here I prayed. The caravan stopped at the base. Squinting, the Priest saw a narrow passage that disappeared behind the rock formations.

“Out. We’re going for a little walk,” Lobo snarled, baring his teeth.

The Priest was pushed out of the truck bed, falling face first on the ground. His brother callously dragged him in front of the passage which had a vertigo effect on the Priest’s sight. Calvary lay ahead. The narrow rocks — smooth and dark like obsidian — formed his via dolorosa.

“How does it feel, padre? To be abandoned?” Lobo snickered.

The Priest rose to his feet with his own power. He remained silent, but softly grinned. Masked underneath the fury, the Priest saw a scared man — a smothered soul denying to face truth. The truth is here, he wondered. It’s where I discovered it. This is the stage. Make me a channel.

The silence disturbed Lobo. The Priest looked like their father. He was transported back his childhood — being led to a St. Joseph statue to light a candle. To a pew. To playing with his brother. Snippets of a life he believed to have suffocated, yet breathed anew. He longed to extinguish the flames, if only with the tips of his fingers. There was no return.

“Move!”

XXVI

As he continued onward into the abyss, the bartender noticed a faint orange glow from behind, but did not reflect on it. Instead, he repeatedly glanced at José, confirming whether the young man still breathed. The boy looked unconscious. Despite living in San Juan Diego and seeing all the men who plunged themselves into the cartel, this boy — and Francisco — appeared younger to him. Or am I getting old, he wondered. A fatherly ire swelled within him. Frustration at boys like José, but shame for his despair — he believed the village was lost. Yet, he seemed to be the only one who made any profit. What could I have done? he thought. He wished this never happened, but, at some level, he felt guilty as if his silence pulled the trigger.

“Damn fool. Stupido! Trying to get yourself killed for what? Money? Women? No honor in that life.”

Suddenly, José weakly coughed. The bartender nearly let go of the steering wheel at the unexpected sound.

“I don’t want to die,” José whispered like a soft wind through branches. It was barely audible over the truck’s rattling.

“Who does? But we all do. And that Priest made sure you’ve even made it this far. He and your brother.”

“Francisco?”

“He dragged you across the desert to get you to safety. If I were you I’d get down on my knees right now and beg God for forgiveness.”

José cracked his eyes open. He had no memory of the night’s events after being shot, but the wound, which aggravated him immensely, was a cold reminder of what happened. He never imagined being this old, already on the precipice of eternity — which he only imagined as endless darkness, like the landscape outside the window. No form. No light. Blindly inching forward, futilely hoping to make contact with another aimless soul. What have I done, he wondered. This is not the life I want.

Then he saw a light on the horizon. A wave of fear drowned him. Is this the end? He urged to scramble, but his body remained unresponsive, slouched in the passenger seat.

“What’s that light up ahead,” he eked out.

“Don’t die on me now. We’re almost there.”

The bartender focused his attention of the sprawling landscape ahead and, indeed, he also saw a light. Then there were two. Then ten. Then almost too many to count.

“Well I’ll be damned,” the bartender said mesmerized.

It was a squad of police cars, flying off in the other direction, toward San Juan Diego. He yahooed at the cavalry, waving his hand out the window.

“What a sight! They’ll wallop the cartel friends of yours.”

José slouched further into his seat. The pain, dormant while he was unconscious, excruciatingly flared. He pressed a towel further on the wound for a modicum of relief that never came. His feathery mind lingered on Francisco. He never knew if his older brother truly loved him before this night. Or if he reciprocated any affection. Prior to tonight, José believed his brother was unqualified to be the family’s leader — lacking conviction. In turn, he felt an obligation to overcompensate for Francisco’s shortcomings, and was lured by Roberto’s machismo. But, after tonight’s events, he was mistaken. Despite the pain, he’d rather be alive — and he had his older brother to thank.

He knew this life was over. He wanted to start anew with his abuela and brother. A tear burned his eye.

“I hope Francisco is alright,” he said.

XXVII

The abuela fervently prayed as Roberto peered through the blinds, surveying any signs of Francisco or José’s return. He scratched the tattoo underneath his eye in frustration. He had no patience, and knowing the elderly woman behind him was praying, annoyed every fiber of his being. He readjusted his gun sling as the woman’s murmuring continued.

“Keep it down. Don’t force my hand,” he motioned to the gun. The abuela raised her head. With resilient eyes, she glared at the brute. Her faith would not abandon her — and she wouldn’t abandon it. Not now.

“You’re wasting your time Roberto. I have no idea where Francisco is. You would know more than me. Aren’t you partners?”

“Your grandson is a coward. Has always been.”

“Then why did you recruit him for this terrible life? You’re a slave to the devil. Empty words and promises to only benefit yourself.”

Roberto removed his fingers from the blinds and, with thundering steps, walked over to the couch. His shadow loomed over her. His eyes were like a dormant volcano on the cusp of awakening.

“I don’t believe in prayer. But I know you do. And if I were you, I would start praying that I’m merciful to your grandson. That I leave him and you alive.”

The house quaked with each step as he returned to the window to scan the empty surroundings. Truly, this was a devil, the abuela thought. She glanced at a figurine of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Don’t abandon Francisco and José, she prayed.

Meanwhile, near the bullet ridden Tranquilo Farms sign, Francisco and Maria slowed their pace to a crawl to avoid alerting Roberto. They could see Francisco’s car in the distance, partially illuminated by the living room light emitting from the window. Beads of sweat accumulated on the young man’s forehead as he parked the car. His mind rattled with different plans to discreetly rescue his grandmother — but none circumvented a direct confrontation with Roberto. He breathed in deeply. He had to make a stand. Maria felt his anxiety — as if he projected a force out of his limbs. She touched his hand, which he tightly grabbed. He stared into her fiery, captivating eyes, longing to dwell within them. Perhaps this is it, he wondered.

“There’s a backdoor. I will distract Roberto. You sneak in and get my abuela out,” he assuredly stated while handing Maria the keys.

“What?” Maria’s shock cut through his heart. “But he’s probably well-armed. What if he just shoots you from the window?”

“It’s the only way. I have to take to keep her safe.”

“But that’s suicide! You can’t do that.”

As Francisco avoided eye contact, he turned toward the lifeless landscape. He envisioned the poor man — the other Francisco from the Priest’s story — ripped of his rosary by thieves. He watched the scene like a movie: a defiant, humble man standing against predators. It didn’t matter if the story was potentially apocryphal. It lingered in his mind. The man died for his belief. He died for love.

“I see now what Father meant by telling me that story of the martyr.”

“What story?”

How could he explain the story. Even he couldn’t fully comprehend its significance, since he lambasted faith throughout his life. Yet, the martyr’s unwillingness to submit to thieves proved powerful enough. What did Francisco believe in? He convinced himself the cartel life was to help his grandmother — it was a path taken with good intentions. But as he considered true self-sacrifice, the fear which curdled in his heart previously, melted away. What was he to fear? He breathed deeply again, resolved to act.

“She’s been good to me. And I’ve been a poor grandson. Now go. Wait until I draw him out.”

Maria teared, but wiped them away, not wishing to shake his determination. She crouched, soundlessly making her way to the back of the house. The dirt remained undisturbed. Francisco, meanwhile, proceeded to the front. Out in the middle of the dry fields, he noticed a dog’s silhouette scampering over the mounds once ripe with vegetation. He pitied the dog for it looked thin and on the verge of death. Turning his attention to the living room window, he tripped over stones that once assembled the well. His head frantically shot toward the door — but nothing moved. Then an idea percolated to lure Roberto out of the house. He picked up a stone, bobbed it in his hand a few times, and hurled it toward the dog — with no intention of hitting the animal. The rock sailed by, but the mongrel yipped. Without hesitating, Francisco briskly lowered himself into the well, bracing his feet against the stone walls. A few pebbles bounced, scraping the sides. Francisco looked down, following the tapping sounds which intensified further into the widening pit. It was darker than anything he had ever seen. Strangely, it appeared to climb toward him, lunging to engulf another victim. He felt a tug, realizing he could plausibly die in a few moments — what did his life amount to. Was the pit the realm he would enter? He held on with all his strength.

The front door burst open. Roberto rushed outside hearing the dog’s cry. He scanned the foreground, watching the dog weave through the mounds of dirt that stretched out toward the horizon. In frustration, he popped a few shots off at the mongrel. He continued onward to the edge of the lot, wondering if Francisco — or someone — hid behind the dirt. He shot more. The gun blasts reverberated off the well’s wall, shaking the stones. Francisco realized he had to move quickly before he too tumbled into the bottomless pit.

“Hiding in the dark, Francisco? Why don’t you come out here and face me like a man? I know you’re out there.”

He inched a few paces into the farmland, kicking rocks. His shadow appeared to expand across the entire field.

“You know I could kill your abuela in a second. Like I killed that traitor, Antonio,” he fiendishly snarled, firing a few more shots at the dog in the distance. Francisco’s suspicion was true — Roberto killed Antonio.

“Lobo asked me. So I did it. I’m a soldier Francisco. That’s the difference between you and me. You never knew how to get dirty. That’s the way to get the things you want in life. You can’t be innocent forever.”

The revelation filled Francisco’s heart with rage. As he climbed out of the well, he picked up a stone, determined to hurl it at his cousin. His nostrils flared. His muscles tensed. His blood boiled. I could kill him right now with his back toward me, he thought. As Francisco aimed to fling the stone, he saw Maria and his abuela slunk down the road. The weak moonlight glimmered off his abuela’s tear-streaked face.

“So that’s it, huh, muchacho? Lure me out so José can save your abuela. Well, I hope he’s armed. Otherwise you made your final mistake,” Roberto said with his back toward Francisco.

Francisco lowered his aim.

“Here I am Roberto. It’s me you want. Not her.”

Roberto slowly turned from the edge of the farmland. He moved like a cat — eerily approaching his prey. Francisco stiffened his back and dug his tired feet into the dirt. The cousin licked his lips and the tattoo darkened even as he stepped toward the light. He smile with all his teeth. His eyes darted toward the main highway, after recognizing the shadows slipping away. The empty stare quivered Francisco’s spine. Do not flinch, he repeated.

“I think I’d like to kill her anyway,” Roberto laughed. “And you get a front row seat.”

As Roberto swirled his gun toward Maria and the abuela, Francisco hurled the stone, striking his cousin’s head. The gun fell into the dark. The young man launched himself at Roberto, and the two scrambled in the dirt. Despite being dazed by the projectile, Roberto was stronger — moving Francisco’s arms with a rigor mortis grip. Loosening his grasp, Roberto powerfully knocked Francisco’s face, caving his left cheek. Within a flash, a shock wave collided with his right. The force catapulted Francisco on his back. Dirt nestled in his wounds, scraping them like sandpaper. The burning was excruciating.

Francisco felt paralyzed. Roberto wiped his forehead. His hand was black, soaked in blood from the stone. With a hulking posture, Roberto stumbled over Francisco, who crawled on his back toward the house. Scrambling for another stone, Francisco eventually laid his hand on something piercingly cold — the gun his cousin dropped. His innocent eyes widened. Roberto noticed fear rippling through Francisco. The window light gave his thoughts away. The devil smiled again — yet it expressed nothing.

“Go on. Coward. Shoot me.”

Francisco did not realize he already aimed the gun at Roberto’s heart. His finger hovered over the trigger as he stood, backing up toward the house. Better to end this nightmare. To end him. Doesn’t he deserve death? The wrestling swallowed his conscience — torturing his mind. Roberto’s dead smile only convinced him further to send his cousin to hell. And would I tie myself with him, he thought.

Suddenly, an engine roared, sweeping into the conflict. Maria was at the wheel with Francisco’s abuela in the passenger seat. Strangely, he could hear their worries looking into their distressed eyes. His heel graced the well. The engulfing darkness rapidly ascended with an expanded jaw. Francisco felt sharp teeth gnawing his limbs while he held his aim — the pain seemed eternal. He stymied the sensations, focusing on the silence in the air instead. In a moment, albeit brief, in his heart, he heard one whispered word: Don’t.

The moment terrified him for he knew it wasn’t his own voice. It sounded beyond himself. Something foreign. A voice of all time and no time. He wanted to end this fight, but Roberto was like a storm — only time or another force of nature could dilute his fleeting power. His finger twitched near the trigger.

Don’t.

As Francisco stared into Roberto’s emptiness, his worries intensified — as if he were looking into his future. A cold wind swept over, chilling the young man to the bone. I can’t do it, he thought. I can’t become him. His finger dropped and, under his own volition, he hurled the gun into the pit — banishing the weapon to the darkness. Francisco heard no scrapes, no metal on rock, and no contact with the caverns below. It was as if the gun was dropped into a void.

“I’m glad I’m not like you,” Francisco defiantly stated. The fight is over, he thought. No matter what happened next, at least this moment, Roberto couldn’t harm all three of them. Despite Roberto being enraged, Francisco saw a smaller, scrawnier man standing before him. Is this who I was afraid of, Francisco wondered. He began walking toward the car to leave the lot, turning his back on the cousin. Roberto’s tattoo darkened, while blood from the gash trickled down his cheek. He felt a stone with his foot, but kept his actions covert.

Francisco approached the car with an assured smile, knowing his life in the cartel was over. He would forge a new path — perhaps start a new, honest business with José —although he wasn’t necessarily sure what that would be. Yet the possibilities were tantalizing enough. His conscience felt lightened.

“You could’ve been one of us,” Roberto coldly said, licking the blood on the corners of his mouth. “You could’ve had money, power, and dignity. You could’ve been a real man. But you doomed yourself to an early death — as a poor, godforsaken nobody. And now your abuela will have to watch it.”

From the driver’s seat, Maria saw Roberto’s silhouette lean over and rise like a phantom. However, the shadow’s right arm looked weighed down. Suddenly, it aimed at an unbeknownst Francisco.

“Francisco! Watch out!” she cried.

A stone whizzed by Francisco’s head, shattering the living room window. Before he had time to move, Roberto collided with Francisco — repeatedly bashing the young man’s head on the ground. Francisco couldn’t think. He couldn’t act. It was like fighting the wind. The stars dimmed. The darkness grew. He heard a muffled, undistinguishable sound — like the wailing of children — in the distance, honing on him. There was a warmth at the base of his skull. He knew he was bleeding. Maria rushed over and knocked Roberto off Francisco, but only momentarily. Through the haze, Francisco witnessed Maria being tossed from view by Roberto, who walloped her across the chin. Then the shadow glided over Francisco, brandishing a rock aimed at his brow. His cousin’s face appeared sunken, with every bone accentuated, as it stepped toward the light. He looked like a specter.

“God, forgive him,” Francisco muttered.

“Adios, muchacho,” the shadow said.

Suddenly, the wailing sound blazed down the driveway. Roberto shielded his eyes from the bright lights, as if they would incinerate him. Francisco rolled over, noticing it was a police squad. He had never seen so many police in his life. Stepping out of the lead car was the captain — a tall, thin man with a mustache — to Francisco. The captain barked orders, which resulted in Roberto kneeling on the ground with his hands behind his head. Meanwhile, Maria crawled over Francisco, assessing his wound. She looked maternal — the purest face he had ever seen through his hazy vision.

“I’m sorry Maria.”

“For what?”

“About Antonio. I didn’t know —”

Maria started to tear, running her fingers through Francisco’s hair, trying to soothe him. The amount of blood soaked the dirt. Francisco was in need of immediate care, which she couldn’t nurse. The innocence in the young man’s eyes diminished, drifting away.

“He’s in God’s hands now.”

As he faded, Francisco saw the captain crouch over him with a stern demeanor. There was an immediacy in his action as he tapped Francisco’s cheeks to keep the young man awake.

“Listen to me. Can you still hear me?”

The young man felt his strength evaporating fast, but nodded.

“Do you know where they took the priest? An older woman in town said you would know. She directed us here.”

To Francisco’s surprise, he could see the Priest standing nearby with a gentle smile, which didn’t quite match the immovable strength effused. The look was one of pride in Francisco. Through the daze, the young man felt an overwhelming presence of love — a sensation he never quite experienced, except from his abuela. With a slight gesture, the Priest directed Francisco’s attention to the abuela, who, despite her weakness, walked with pain to her grandson. As Francisco turned, the apparition vanished.

“Stay with us,” the abuela sorrowfully said.

He needs me. I can help. Answer him, Francisco. Answer.

“ — yes,” faintly affirmed.

“Where?” the captain asked.

XXVIII

The Priest lost track of time, yet that no longer mattered. He prayed the rosary, keeping track with his fingers. In between the Hail Marys, he reflected on his father. The blood. The eyes. The voiceless prayer. Those memories were swept away by a man leading his sons in prayer. His strong, calloused hands picking him up. Truly, a dutiful figure. The Priest felt dissociative from his body, which was worn from the climb. He knew his feet burned — similar to the long trek he made years ago, when he was a raw, wandering soul. Yet the pain could not eclipse his prayer, for he knew he no longer wandered.

“I could kill you right now, if you wish,” Lobo snarled as the pair approached a cliff.

“Then why don’t you,” the Priest stoically responded.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for more than 20 years. And you could do with some penance.”

“You are not immaculate in this Lucas. And I know I’m not. I’ve been trying to find you in that time, and lead you back — to join me. We divulged our yearnings in the material things. I came to realize, perhaps too late, that it was a futile search for peace. Peace that can only be found in God. You are a soul worthy of being saved still.”

Lobo recoiled at his brother’s words, which he perceived as arrogance. There was nothing to save — and nothing to save him from. He glanced over the cliff, finding sharp rock edges in the receding moonlight, and visualized casting his brother on them.

“What do you know about saving? If I throw you off the cliff right now, do you think a band of angels would catch you? No. The more likely, your head would be split open. And you’d enter the darkness for all eternity. You see, there is no one here to be saved. Why even try when we’re already condemned?”

The Priest could hear the gears grind in his brother’s mind. He envisioned a devil convincing Lucas to stoke in a furnace that produced such thoughts.

“But you’re wrong.”

Lobo grabbed the Priest’s collar, swerving him to lean over the edge.

“Want to find out if I’m wrong?”

The fall would be dramatic. But the Priest did not fear death. He only feared failing to plant a seed of reconciliation in his brother. Lobo saw his brother was unafraid, filled with resolve. How can I break this man? he wondered.

“Our purpose here, in this life, is to help at least one soul discover God’s love — to be an intercessor to someone’s prayer. I’ve prayed to find you for years, and God has led me here. He led me to you. To this mountain,” the Priest stated.

Lobo twisted the collar further into his palm with every word the Priest uttered. The Perros’ leader couldn’t fathom how the Priest was even able to breath. But in the ensuing silence, the older brother’s attention moved from the rocks below to his younger brother. Lobo felt the Priest’s stare pierce his soul — he looked like their father once again.

“You don’t need to be afraid.”

Lobo loosened his grip.

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of facing him.”

Lobo felt he stared directly into his father’s soul. A coldness rippled up his spine. His mind replayed the moment he murdered his father. The old man sat on the outdoor patio, and greeted his prodigal son by motioning to another chair — to sit and stay. He could hear his father’s sober voice, pretending no history passed between them. The cartel leader believed he buried that voice in the darkest, cavernous regions of his memory. The icy trigger. The burning rage. He equated his father to a master who chained his servants to an impoverished life. The young man hated his father’s expectations. This life was his own. It belonged to no one else. And it would be shaped by no one else. As he aimed the gun, the father forlornly looked at his vengeful son — making no attempt to dissuade him. Lucas remembered the unbearable sadness, witnessing his father’s failure. It was a memory he had to kill.

The Priest noticed the pain swelling in his brother’s eyes, which widened from shock.

“I see him all the time, Lucas. In my prayers, my dreams. I believe he is here now. And he will forgive you if you ask him and stop this way of life.”

“There is no stopping this. This world was put upon us. Like it has done to billions of souls. And there is no escape from the inevitable — so why live like we’re chained.”

Lobo fully loosened his grip, backing away from the Priest, who still stood on the precipice. The Priest’s hands were bound, but Lobo noticed his brother’s fingers unfurl as if he were counting. The cassock disgusted Lobo. What people would give his brother any authority? he inwardly growled.

“You’re almost worse than before.”

The Priest saw a child scared of eternity, and unwilling to face his ultimate failure and the truth. He noticed the sun creeping on the horizon, engulfing San Juan Diego off in the distance in a radiate light. It was a new day. The light had not reached the mountains, but, in the desert below, he detected vehicle markings, most likely from their drive to the base of the mountains earlier. The Lord is my shepherd —

“What will you do if you kill me? Will that satisfy you?”

Lobo was taken aback by the brashness. It interrupted his attempts to suffocate his father’s memory, and his failure as a son.

“Yes —” he softly said.

“Do you realize what that will mean?”

“Yes. An end.”

“But to what? What will it end? The pain? Did killing father end your suffering? You will sulk in the darkness for the rest of time. Please listen to me. I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help. And I’m not the one who needs help. You are alone. I could leave you bound to this rock. The animals will rip your flesh off of your bones or the sun will cook you, while you wail into the void. And where will your God be then?”

Lobo aimed a gun at his brother — targeting his heart. The Priest noticed a tear form in Lucas’ eyes. The two spirits were fighting within him.

“He will abandon you because he was never there. And no army of angels is coming to save you,” Lobo stated, as if forcing himself to do so.

Standing on the edge, the Priest breathed in and closed his hands into a ball. He had completed another decade. “Lead all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy,” he prayed. He resigned that he would never witness his brother’s conversion, which filled him with sadness — but not failure. He refused to believe God would allow his prayers be in vain. He spoke the truth. None of the words he spoke felt his own. Perhaps, my death might awaken his soul, he believed.

“Are you sure about this Lucas?”

Lobo’s hand shook, but the aim remained affixed on the Priest’s heart. He furrowed his brow and revealed his sharp teeth, projecting a false conviction — for tears dangled in his eyes.

“I am Lobo,” he weakly stated. His words were quickly whisked away with the wind.

How did it come to this, the Priest thought. His life did not flash before him. His mind lingered on the photograph he had carried with him for years, the one on his rectory bookshelf. It captured the childhood innocence of his younger brother. That is the image I want to die with. I hope God can reveal him once more to the world before it’s too late, he prayed. The Priest straightened his back, bracing for his execution.

“So be it. Do what you need to do.”

The tension of the mountain stretched to its ultimate end, as Lobo continued aiming. The painful memories cascaded on his mind unrelentingly like ocean waves colliding with the shore. He had killed for less. He coldly obliterated his rival’s skull. He murdered young men or ordered their deaths — like Antonio. How could he, a predator, be saved as his brother suggested. His body burned with molten blood. Why was he afraid to shoot this priest? What slowed his hand? What is holding me back, he feared.

“Come back with me,” the Priest said. His tone was brotherly, devoid of judgment. Those words pierced Lobo’s spirit. Despite his efforts to deflect, they tolled in his heart. He lowered the weapon. A tear rolled down his facial scar.

The Priest was amazed. All this time searching, all this time praying to see his brother — and to open his heart — seemed to be fulfilled before his eyes. He thanked God as he inched toward his brother, approaching him like a scared creature. Suddenly, he noticed shadows weaving from behind the rocks. The rising sun revealed them to be police. How did they know we were here, he thought. A fear rushed over him — how would Lucas react.

“Drop it!” the captain shouted at Lobo, who still clutched the gun.

Lobo slowly turned in the captain’s direction. He pondered the fate of his own men — if they fled, deserting their leader, or if they were killed. Whatever the outcome, it did not matter. The authorities stood before him. He was surrounded. He knew this would be the end for he did not want to die in prison. He couldn’t go back. And he wouldn’t run. The Priest noticed Lucas’ gears turning — he could hear them grinding, screeching.

Dejected, Lobo glanced back at his brother. He saw the Priest’s eyes pleading not to act irrationally. The failure swept over him, along with remorse.

“I’m sorry, Rafael. I could never go with you.”

“Don’t Lucas.”

Lobo whipped the gun, firing at the police. The police returned fire. The cartel leader dove behind a small rock, but felt bullets rip through his flesh and bones. He buried his urge to howl in pain. He dug in his pockets for more ammunition, but they slipped out of his blood soaked hand. The gun blasts continued, and rock shards scraped Lucas’ face — reopening his facial scar.

“Stop! Stop it!” the Priest shouted. But his words were drowned in the ensuing violence. He had to protect his brother, who remained sheltered behind the rock. He needed medical attention, for he saw a pool of blood creeping into the sand. In the pursuing gunfire, the Priest walked in the middle of the action. Lucas turned around, shocked to see his brother’s deft, suicidal act. A few bullets tore holes through his cassock — yet the Priest was unharmed. It was as if the hand of God redirected the bullets. Lucas couldn’t believe it. How is he not immediately dead, he wondered.

“Hold your fire!” the captain barked.

Lucas tried to pull himself up, but had no strength. He was torn. Every muscle felt shredded. Every bone obliterated. Death was imminent. The Priest hurried over to his dying brother. An overwhelming failure swelled within him.

“I told you. I couldn’t go with you,” Lucas said, gasping for air to speak.

“This was not suppose to happen Lucas. You can still come back.”

Lucas struggled, trying to move, but he couldn’t. He was fading.

“Even then, you still tried to save me.”

The Priest couldn’t hide his tears. He tried applying pressure to the wounds with his bound hands. He knew he only had a few moments left with his younger brother.

“You are my brother. And I love you. I always will.”

The corner of Lucas’ mouth grinned by the Priest’s sincerity. He looked away from his older brother to the rising sun. He saw many sunrises due to drug runs to the border, but he had never seen one more glorious. He wondered if he ever noticed one before. The beauty brought a tear to his eye.

“Father?”

“Yes, Lucas?”

“Please — pray for me,” he gasped.

Lucas’ pupils widened as he drifted off into eternity. The Priest could feel a coldness emanate from his brother. He buried his head into Lucas’ chest, wishing to hug him, but his hands were still bound. Then, using his sleeves, he cleaned the blood off Lucas’ face — which reminded him of the wooden crucifix. He had to fulfill his priestly duties. God, in His providence, placed me here for this reason, the Priest believed.

“May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up —”

After closing Lucas’ eyes, the Priest noticed how weightless his brother’s body appeared in the morning sun. The orange aura illuminated him, making him appear entirely different. He looked more reminiscent of the boy in the photograph than a hardened cartel man. The Priest gazed at the sun, imagining Lucas’ soul drift off to meet their father. He reverently prayed, but a sensation within him knew God would be merciful to his brother.

He had to believe.

XXIX

“Francisco.” The young man heard the foreign voice again. He hadn’t heard anything since slipping into unconsciousness after telling the police of Lobo’s probable location. He opened his eyes, blinded by extreme whiteness. He believed he was dead, but when the vision’s focus returned, he found Maria sleeping in a chair. Turning his head, he noticed José in the bed next to him. An intravenous line was inserted in his arm. A television was on in the corner playing a news broadcast.

The bartender was in the hallway, pacing around asking nurses where he could grab a cup of coffee.

Francisco looked back at his brother, intently surveying for any signs of life. A weight plunged in his belly, but he was soon relieved when José’s chest inflated. He felt immense gratitude, but wasn’t sure who to direct it toward. The bartender? Maria? The Priest? God?

“José —” Francisco whispered, inching toward the edge of the bed.

His brother did not move. Perhaps he wasn’t awake, but he tried again.

“José.”

Nothing. As he rolled back to the middle of the bed, saddened by his brother’s silence, Francisco heard soft crying coming from José. Francisco’s anxiety evaporated. José was conscious.

“I’m sorry,” the younger brother whispered. His back still faced Francisco. Touched, Francisco extended his reach, trying to rub his brother’s back — but he was short.

“I’m sorry too. For everything. But look at me.”

Initially José hesitated, but, after a brief silence, slowly flipped his body. His eyes were dark red. He looked like he had been crying for ages. He lowered his head, hiding them in shame. Francisco saw a scared, young boy devoid of hope.

“It’s a new day. We start anew.”

“But can we?”

“I believe so. Do you?”

José hid his eyes again in his arm. What life would the pair return to in San Juan Diego? Was there any foundation there to build a new life? Would the cartel allow them? Roberto’s towering presence lunged in his imagination, making the boy coil further in the sheets.

“Roberto?”

“He’s done,” Francisco coldly stated.

José lowered his arms, revealing his eyes once again to his brother. There was immense relief, as his facial muscles relaxed.

“We have each other José. And I will always be there for you.”

José extended his hand, which Francisco tightly grabbed. Francisco could feel José didn’t want to let go. The elder knew this was the forging of a new brotherhood. He smiled — feeling a deeper connection than he had ever known. The bartender silently crept into the room, blowing the steam off his coffee. He nearly leapt out of his shoes when he noticed both brothers were conscious.

“You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Like a bull ran right into me,” Francisco joked, rolling back over in bed. “Is Father alright?”

“Father? Oh, the padre?”

Francisco tried to sit upright, but a wave of pain blanketed him, especially in the back of his head. Had his fear come true — would he have this man’s death on his conscience? He braced for the worst. The bartender stepped out of the threshold, wearing a curiously delightful smile. Out from the hallway walked in the Priest, who had a bandage wrapped around his head. He still wore the bullet-ridden cassock. The young man could hardly contain his jubilation.

“Father. You’re alive. Thank God.”

The Priest stood at the edge of bed, sporting a grateful grin.

“I heard you helped the police find me. Thank you. It took a lot of courage what you did. Especially your fight with Roberto. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

Francisco heard a pain in the Priest’s voice, but he couldn’t detect why. However, he noticed a similarity between the Priest’s voice and the one he heard — the one that woke him.

“Who did you hear that from?”

“From her —” he motioned to Maria, who still slept.

“If I had been smarter all along, it wouldn’t have come to that,” Francisco responded shamefully. “My brother and I wouldn’t be here. We could’ve both been killed and left my abuela alone. Is she alright?”

“She’s here. There’s a doctor actually examining her feet,” the Priest grinned. Francisco felt immense relief, knowing his abuela was safe.

“But how will I pay —”

“Don’t worry,” the Priest reassured the young man. He pulled the open chair to Francisco’s bedside. Running his fingers through his hair, the Priest reflected on Lucas. Shame of sin sent his brother spiraling into darkness. He couldn’t let the same fate plagued Francisco, whose projected innocence mirrored his conscience presently.

“Francisco, I know you love your brother. And you don’t wish him any ill in this world. I felt the same way about my own brother —” the Priest choked up, but stymied the tears. “We have our fears that can drive us to do unspeakable things, which only prolongs our suffering. I think it stems from us wanting to control our own destiny, grasping free will and living it to its fullest extent. But that’s not an enriching life. Living in shame is not an enriching life. And there’s nothing to be afraid of with God beside us. He is with us. He works through us, if only we allow him to.”

He reflected on Lucas’ body, blanketed in the aura of the rising sun.

“You don’t have to be afraid to ask for forgiveness. Even at the end.”

Francisco nodded his head, soaking in the Priest’s words. He relaxed his mind. He turned to Maria — envisioning a life with her. Just her sleeping there brought joy to the young man, as she radiated the glow of the sun peeking through the window blinds. He then looked toward José, who quietly watched the broadcast. His eyes bounced back to the Priest. The young man felt a great peace — relinquishing the past to the past.

“But isn’t this the beginning?” Francisco grinned.

The Priest affirmatively smiled. At that moment, Maria stirred. When she noticed the Priest, she shot out of her chair and embraced him. She believed she would never see him again.

“Father! You’re ok!”

The moment filled the Priest’s heart. Even though he had known her only a couple of days, he felt they were already friends for life. After nearly a minute, Maria loosened her hug and saw the news broadcast of the papal visit.

“He is really here. In our country. It’s beautiful. Look at the crowds. The faith is alive here.”

As the Priest, Maria, Francisco, and the bartender watched the broadcast, José timidly coughed — trying to find courage to speak to the Priest. The Priest turned around and walked by José’s bedside. The young man felt intimidated.

“Father —”

“Yes, José?” the Priest replied with a comforting smile.

José twiddled his thumbs, unsure of how to speak to a man of the Priest’s stature. After hiding his eyes from the Priest, the young man eventually looked into them. He never felt peace before, but it nearly overwhelmed him in that moment. Truly, this man is sincere, he thought.

“I overheard that the church burned down. I don’t know anything about carpentry, but if you need help, I will do what I can to rebuild it.”

The Priest was moved by the young man’s proposition. It nearly made him weep.

“So will I!” Maria chimed.

“I have a few tools in my cantina,” the bartender echoed.

“I may not be much, but I will do what I can.”

The last voice was Francisco’s. The Priest was particularly struck by the young man’s offer to help. From where their relationship started till now, was night and day. The young man gave him hope that San Juan Diego’s fate would reverse, and reaffirmed his inclination that the Holy Spirit called him to the desert. From these souls, and the faithful he met over the past few days, life will flow. They’ll cultivate the earth. They’ll rebuild their homesteads. Families will form. All from God’s grace — not his own presence. The Lord has blessed me with so much, he reflected.

“Thank you —” he said with tears of joy.

All of them turned to the television, watching the Holy Father celebrate Mass. Among the attendees, the Priest saw Father Miguel, joining the pope in consecrating the Eucharist. The Priest made a mental note to call his friend — to thank him for sending help, which saved Francisco’s life and likely his own. His assistance was like the invisible hand of God, directing troubled souls to salvation, the Priest thought. Then he lost himself in the Eucharist, reflecting on the Lord’s Passion. He particularly focused on the penitent thief, St. Dismas — who Jesus told would be with Him in paradise during the crucifixion. Through the blood and anguish, the Lord saw a weak man humbling himself. Perhaps, we are all like that man condemned to death, he thought. Death is inevitable, but despairing souls condemn themselves again —only to the darkness.

As he surveyed his new friends, memorized by the consecration, the Priest knew — with his full heart — he was not orphaned.

THE END