Last Night, Near the Border
By: Tom Sadira
Tags: Immigration, Politics, Gun Violence, Drama, Fiction

Miguel

Miguel drained the last drop of water from the plastic bottle, then crumpled it and tossed it into a nearby cholla. The water had been warm and plasticky, but it was better than nothing. After five days of hiking under the Sonoran sun he was so dehydrated he would have gladly sipped the sweat from a scorpion’s ass.

The thought made him cross himself, utter a prayer, then touch the rosary etched into the skin around his neck. A second tattoo had been added more recently — a scorpion holding the rosary beads in its claws, its stinger stretching up his neck to his jawline. The rosary would protect him from danger, while the scorpion would ward off those who tried to take what was his. So far, they both seemed to be working.

Gabriel, the fool, had chosen to get his hometown’s name inked across his chest. A lot of good that did him. At least if someone found him before the vultures picked his skin away, they’d know where to send the body.

What a pinche pendejo! What was I supposed to do, just sit there next to him and wait for death? Carry him? Fuck that. Every man for himself.

In a panic, he checked his back pocket. His last bottle of water, which just yesterday had been Gabriel’s, was still there. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to uncap it and drink. Instead, he wiped dirt from his cracked lips and scanned the horizon.

In all directions, ancient saguaros towered over the landscape. Their bulging heads seemed to be the only thing holding up the flat, pink sky. Miguel resented the little shade they offered during the day. Someone had once told him that cacti stored water behind their pointy spines and thick walls. After chipping away at one with a sharp rock and finding no water, he decided it was just a myth.

Miguel imagined knocking them over, one by one, letting the sky come crashing down on him, the desert, and every other miserable creature destined to kill or be killed under God’s merciless sun. As his mind flailed and stomped across the landscape, a plump, round face suddenly appeared in front of him.

Juanita! Mi alma!

She needs me.

I must go on.

His rage turned into heartache, which tumbled back into rage. He tried to blink away the vision, but there she was, standing right in front of him. He smelled the floral scent of her hair. He touched her expanding belly and felt a kick.

She smiled and spoke softly into his ear, “Don’t worry, mi cariño. We’ll be together soon.”

Had she made it safely past la migra? Would she remember his cousin’s address? Would the polleros keep their word and treat her with respect?

His stomach clenched as he replayed the sight of his wife being led onto the bus with the others, while those unable to pay the last minute fees — he, Gabriel, and most of the other men — were left behind.

He paid them all his money to get her across the border safely. If those stinking coyotes laid a finger on her, if they harmed her in any way, he’d cut off their heads and shove them up their asses.

The sun disappeared below the horizon, taking with it the vision of his sweet Juanita, leaving only a biting coolness to embrace him.

Something furry scampered into the safety and warmth of its burrow. Nearly all the lizards and snakes of the desert had already gone into hibernation. Miguel wished he could join them.

For five nights in a row, his tattered denim jacket did its best to keep him from shivering. Miguel marveled at how cold the open desert could get this time of year. Each night was harder than the last. Each night we was less sure he’d make it till morning.

Miguel sighed and continued walking to stay warm. As the last rays of sunlight drained into the west, stars began appearing in the east. He traced patterns in them, trying to connect them in a way that would outline the shape of Juanita’s face.

Suddenly, he stopped and squinted north. The stars in that direction seemed washed out by a glow coming from the horizon.

Hereford should be farther to the west. I’ve been traveling northeast for days, so it must be Bisbee.

Hereford was a bit closer to Tucson, where his Juanita would be waiting at his cousin’s, but Bisbee would do just fine for tonight. There’d be shelter, water, and some trash to scavenge for food. Compared to the last few days in the desert, it sounded like paradise.

The Cochise County deputies had a reputation for roughing up brown-skinned people — legal or not — but Miguel shrugged it off. Incarceration didn’t scare him. He’d broken a dozen laws to get this far, and he’d break a dozen more if he had to.

Fuck the law. Let those fat gringos try to stop me.

All that mattered now was finding Juanita. She needed him. His unborn child needed him. It wouldn’t be easy, but he’d do whatever was needed to be reunited with them.

Besides, once the baby was born on American soil the law would finally be on their side.

Miguel smiled, crossed himself again, and started jogging north.

Abe

Isaac Dodge fiddled with his phone while his father, Abraham, gripped the steering wheel with his meaty fists. The empty two-lane highway stretched out ahead of them, but Abe flipped on the truck’s high beams anyway.

“Can’t you live without that gadget for two goddamn seconds?”

“I’m doing homework,” Isaac said without looking away from his screen.

“Homework? On your phone? That’s rich. Turn it off.”

“It’s due tomorrow, Dad. I wouldn’t have to rush if you hadn’t dragged me to that stupid rally.”

“Stupid rally? You better watch your mouth, son. If Pastor Bill or the other guys from our congregation heard you speak like they’d smack you upside your head,” Abe said. “And I’m not sure I’d stop ‘em.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Abe flipped on the radio. Mariachi music blared. He spun the dial to static, then to another station playing a slow country ballad. When the vocals finally started, they sang in Spanish. He flicked it off and grunted.

“Goddamn illegals are even invading the airwaves!”

“No, they’re not, Dad.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. You haven’t made a peep in hours, but now you got all sorts of opinions. How ‘bout you man up, put that stupid gadget down, and tell me exactly what was so stupid about that rally?”

Without waiting, he reached over and slapped the phone out of Issac’s hands.

“Fine,” Issac slid the phone into his jacket pocket. “It was fake, Dad. It was supposed to be a voluntary political rally, but your boss said you and the other miners would have to use a sick day if you didn’t attend. Plus, Pastor Bill used his whole sermon last week to say it’d be a sin to not attend. Why not just give him your mail-in ballot and let him fill it out for you?”

“Do I come home all smudged up? I ain’t no miner, son. I’m a Senior Mine Foreman, a follower of Christ, and a red-blooded American. I vote how I damn well please.” He flipped on his turn signal and hung a left through the empty intersection. “You wanna talk about sin, boy? How about putting words in our good pastor’s mouth?”

“I’m not putting words in anyone’s mouth. He said that Jesus, if He were a citizen of Cochise County, would offer the incumbent His support by attending the re-election rally. Then he asked the congregation whether they’d stand by their Savior during these turbulent times. The sin was implied. It was religious coercion.”

“Pastor Bill’s been leading our flock since before you were born. Who the hell do you think baptized you? Now, here you are, a few hairs sproutin’ from your chin, and you think you know Christ better than him?”

“Yeah, I do,” Issac said. “No way would Jesus support a racist, bigoted candidate. Jesus wouldn’t separate kids from their parents and hold them in cages.”

Abe twisted the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. “Excuse me? That great man behind that podium tonight is your president. You heard him, he just wants to bring America back under God’s law.” He sighed and shook his head. “Who’s putting these blasphemous thoughts in your head, anyway?”

“God’s putting these thoughts in my head, Dad. It’s not blasphemy to read and interpret the Bible differently than our pastor.”

“You think you’re the first to read the Bible? Well, your old man has spent many hours with the Good Book, and I got one that requires no interpretation. It’s God talking plainly about what to do with the invaders of liberty.” Abe cleared his throat. “Deuteronomy, chapter seven. Make no treaty with them, and show them no mercy. Do not intermarry with them. Do not give your daughters to their sons or take their daughters for your sons, for they will turn your children away from following me to serve other gods, and the Lord’s anger will burn against you and will quickly destroy you. Sound familiar, son?”

“Sounds demented.”

Abe’s face turned red and he punched the dashboard. “You dare question the Word of God?”

“Dad, you’re quoting Old Testament, which is pretty whacked out stuff,” Issac said, squirming in his seat. Then, with a confidence he’d never shown his father, he sat up straight and continued. “Jesus — you know, our Savior, the guy you said follow — came to replace all those old, ignorant laws with better ones. In the Book of Luke, he said, Love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back.”

“Ignorant? I’ll show you ignorant! I oughta pull over right now and whoop your bottom like I did when you were little.”

Isaac didn’t stop. “From the Book of Matthew, As you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me. Who do you think he was talking about, Dad?”

“Where’d your mother and I go wrong? The Devil loves pride, boy, and you’re full of it. You’re — ”

“Also from Matthew,” Issac was on fire now, the red hot words spilling from his mouth faster than he could think, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown — ”

It was Abe’s turn to interrupt. He let the back of his hand do the work, then held his fist in the air as a warning. Isaac yelped, covering his face and pulling himself against the passenger door.

“You listen up, you arrogant little shit. I didn’t raise no socialist hippy back-talker.” Abe turned the truck down the dirt driveway that led to their property. “No son of mine is gonna disrespect the authority of his government, his church, or especially his home. Honor thy father and thy mother, remember? And since you’re so fond of the New Testament, try this one on for size. Paul said, in his letter to the Romans, Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. Whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment.” He lifted his fist again to punctuate the word judgment.

Tires crunched on gravel as the truck rolled to a stop. Abe threw it into park and cut the engine. Isaac’s eyes were bloodshot from holding back tears.

“It’s gonna be a cold night,” Abe said, staring blankly at their sprawling, ranch-style home. “Go on, feed the horses and put their blankets on. Then I want you to get on inside and finish up your homework.”

Without answering, Isaac slid out of his seat, slammed the door shut behind him, and stomped through the open gate that led to the back yard.

As soon as he was out of sight, his phone was back in his hand. He kicked open the large storage shed where they kept the horse feed and slipped inside.

Issac ignored the small, brown critter that scurried by his feet, but he couldn’t ignore the much bigger rustling from the shadows. He aimed his phone away from his face to let his screen illuminate the shed.

Crouched in the corner, shivering and dirty, was a Mexican man with a scorpion tattoo on his neck.

Another Bible verse popped into his head from the Book of Luke. From now on, families will be split apart, father against son and son against father.

Isaac grabbed a horse blanket from the shelf, held it out to the shivering man, and put a finger to his lips.

Chad

“Dispatch, this is Officer Wheeler reporting from Car 736.” Chad squinted down a moonlit alley as his squad car rolled through Main Street. “Southside’s quiet. Gonna head south, all the way to 3rd, then loop around the park.”

“Roger that, Car 736,” answered dispatch. “Let’s hope it stays quiet out there. Stay safe, Wheeler.”

Safe? Chad thought, laying a hand on his firearm. I’m perfectly safe. But any filthy beaners sleeping in the park won’t be.

“Thanks, Sue. I’ll check back in sixty,” Chad said.

He gassed the cruiser and sped south. The word ‘beaner’ lingered in his mind, making him grin. His uncle had used it all the damn time: when yelling at the TV; while arguing over empty dinner plates; even out in public.

One time, at the grocery store, a Hispanic woman overheard him using the word and got offended. His uncle just turned to him and winked, “Uncle Chuck doesn’t give a fuck, does he, kid?”

He was a little rough around the edges, but what red-blooded American wasn’t? Besides, Uncle Chuck was all Chad had growing up. His dad bailed just after he was born, and his mom spent her nights, and most days, drinking herself into oblivion down at the Rusty Tap. Uncle Chuck — the veteran, the patriot, the man’s man — had been the closest thing Chad had to a father.

Chad wished he could be as free as Uncle Chuck. But these were dark times when the liberal snowflakes had sacrificed freedom of speech in order to protect a few thin-skinned illegals. When Americans like Chad were denied the right to serve in the military over a couple of dings on their criminal record. When millennial crybabies wanted to come for everyone’s guns.

As long as I’m an officer, you pansy-ass libtards can’t touch my 2nd Amendment.

A shadow appeared in his headlights — someone was walking alongside the park, toward the southside suburbs. Chad flipped a switch on his dash. The flashing lights on the cruiser’s roof came to life. Adrenaline dripped into his arteries.

The shadow turned around. It wasn’t a beaner, but at least the guy looked suspicious. It was a black man in his early twenties, wearing a dark brown hoodie, blue jeans, sneakers, with a backpack slung over his shoulders.

More adrenaline. Maybe tonight’s shift wouldn’t be so boring after all.

Chad’s eyes scanned the backpack, the hoodie pockets, the baggy jeans. A weapon could be hidden in any one of those places. He unclipped his holster and pulled up behind the suspect.

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em!” Chad shouted, his hand resting on his firearm. He slammed the door shut and started walking around the cruiser toward the suspect.

Come on, make a move.

Come at me.

Or run away. I don’t care.

Any excuse will do, nigger.

Just thinking that word sent a shiver up his spine. Maybe, if the president got re-elected, guys like him and Uncle Chuck would be able to use all these honest words again. Until then, thinking them would have to do.

“What’s the problem, Officer?” the suspect said.

“You tell me. What’re you doing out here at this hour?”

“I was on campus, finishing up a project for my bio class. Time got away from me. I’m headed home to get some sleep.”

“Campus? You don’t look like college material to me. Let me see some I.D.” Chad tensed, fingering the cold steel at his hip. “Nice and slow, you hear me?”

The suspect sighed and held his hands up. The fear in his eyes was real. Chad felt more adrenaline surge through his body.

Very slowly, the suspect lowered his left hand. “You’re asking me to get my wallet, so I have to reach into my back pocket. Okay? I’m complying with your order.”

“That’s it. Nice and easy.”

Chad took the I.D, pretended to look it over, and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“Looks fake to me. I’ll have to run it to find out for sure. But first, are you carrying any weapons?”

“No, Officer. I have no weapons of any kind. I’d really just like to get home and — ”

“Car 736, come in,” Sue’s voice came through Chad’s shoulder speaker. “We have a 10–59 in progress at a residence three miles of your current location. I repeat, a 10–59 in progress. Please respond and proceed with caution. Backup is en route to meet you there.”

Chad caught the suspect’s eyes before answering Sue, “Roger that, dispatch. Proceeding to the 10–59.” He clicked off his mic and tapped the I.D. in his shirt pocket. “I’ll go ahead and keep this. That way I can find you later to follow up.”

“Aw, man. Can’t I have my I.D. back? I need it to cash my paycheck, and — ”

“I’ll give it back to you next time we meet. Best get home now. No telling what kind of trouble you might run into this time of night,” Chad said, winking.

The cruiser peeled away, kicking rocks and dirt into the air. It took just over four minutes for Chad to arrive at the address Sue had sent to his car’s GPS. Before he got out of the cruiser, he tapped the mic at his shoulder.

“Dispatch, this is Car 736. Just arrived at the 10–59. I think I hear shouting around back, I’m gonna investigate.”

“Alright, Car 736. Proceed with caution. Backup is on the way.”

Firearm raised in front of him, Chad slipped around the cruiser toward an open gate at the side of the house. Now that he was outside his vehicle, he could hear the voices more clearly.

“Let him go, you goddamn sonofabitch!” a man yelled. “I swear I’ll shoot!”

“Abe!” a woman cried. “The police are on their way! Put the gun down!”

“For the last time, get in the house, Ellen!”

Chad turned the corner of the house. A white-haired Caucasian man was pointing a large handgun — a .357 Magnum, by the size of the barrel — at the doorway of a large shed. A woman cowered from inside a small, decorative gazebo about thirty yards from the shed.

“Cochise Sheriff’s Department! Drop your weapon!” Chad shouted at the man.

The old man’s eyes flicked in his direction, but he didn’t comply.

“Glad to see you, Officer,” he shouted, his voice trembling as much as his hands. “But I ain’t dropping my weapon till my boy is out of danger, you hear me?”

Chad considered doing things the hard way, but there was an Uncle Chuckness about the old guy that put him at ease. Besides, until the other deputies arrived, the old guy was the only backup he had.

He took one hand off his firearm and placed it gently on the old guy’s shoulder.

“Sir, I understand you’re distressed and I appreciate your willingness to help. But, please, leave this to me. I’ll make sure nothing happens to your boy.”

“It’s one of those goddamn illegals! He was hiding out in the feed shed, probably waiting for us to go to bed so he could ransack our property… And I sent Isaac out here to feed the horses… It’s my fault, goddammit!” He blinked tears from his eyes, only to make room for more.

“Sir, I’m a Cochise County Deputy. Isaac is going to be alright. Please — your wife looks like she might have a heart attack. Go take care of her.” He squeezed the old guy’s shoulder. “And watch my back, okay?”

After a moment, the old guy let his gun slowly fall to his waist. “Get him, you hear?”

Chad nodded and said in a low voice, “Don’t worry, sir. I got this. Justice has room to breathe out here in the real world, before the liberal courts release these beaners to go to commit more crimes.”

Abe glanced back at his wife, returned the nod, then backed away in her direction — never taking his eyes off the shed.

“This is Deputy Wheeler from the Cochise Sheriff’s Department!” Chad announced, his firearm braced in both hands. “This doesn’t have to end badly. I know you’re scared, I know you don’t want to do anything you can’t take back. Just come on out with your hands up, and no one will get hurt.”

There was a shuffling of feet inside the shed. Muffled voices, maybe a small argument.

“More deputies are on their way,” Chad said. “Some of those guys have a tendency to get a little trigger happy. Let the boy go, come on out of there with your hands in the air, and you won’t get hurt.”

After a moment, the shed door creaked open and the outline of a teenage boy appeared. Chad started to relax, then noticed the sunburned arm around the boy’s chest and the glint of metal at his throat.

Guess we’ll do this the hard way.

Isaac stepped through the doorway into the dim porch light. A short Mexican man, barely taller than the boy, peeked out from behind.

“I speak a little Spanish, from school,” Isaac said, more calmly than Chad would’ve expected. “I’ve already spoken to him and I can translate.”

“You okay, Issac? Has he hurt you in any way?” Chad said, feeling the electricity of the trigger under his forefinger.

“No, sir. He says he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Says his wife was kidnapped by some bad guys and smuggled across the border. Says he only followed to rescue her and bring her back to Mexico. Says he was just looking for a place to stay warm for the night.”

“Well, here in Cochise we have a nice county jail with central heating.” Chad smirked. “And lucky for him, we have a vacancy. Tell him to let you go, right now, and we can help locate his wife.”

Isaac whispered something in Spanish over his shoulder. The beaner whispered back.

“Says he’d rather take dad’s car south, back to the border. Says I’d go with him and he’d leave me on the U.S. side once he’s in the clear.”

“Not gonna happen.” Chad took a deep breath and carefully aimed his crosshairs at the dome of dark hair over the boy’s shoulder. “Tell him he has exactly three seconds to let you go, or else.”

Chad heard the boy’s mother gasp, then Abe called out from the gazebo, “Officer, shouldn’t you wait till backup arrives?”

“See that knife at your boy’s throat? You wanna wait to see what he does with it?” Chad shouted, a bit louder than was necessary. “Trust me, sir, I got this! Let the boy go and drop the weapon! Now!” He cocked his gun. “Three…”

He saw the beaner tense up. The pressure was working. Chad knew that at any moment the asshole would drop the knife, push the kid aside, and beg for mercy. Too bad for him that Chad wasn’t feeling very merciful.

“Two…”

Another cry from the gazebo. Sirens whispered in the distance. Backup must have just come around Miner’s Peak. Chad knew he had about two minutes before they rolled up. He’d have to act fast if he wanted to take this beaner down without any official scrutiny.

He closed one eye and fixed the other on the dome of dark hair. He was one of the best sharpshooters on the force. This would be a piece of cake. The icing on top would come in the form of the local news praising Deputy Wheeler for rescuing a local teenager from the clutches of another violent illegal. Uncle Chuck would be so damn proud when he heard.

Chad opened his mouth to finish his countdown but was interrupted by a loud bang from inside the shed. He pulled the trigger.

Packrat

The large packrat was an expert at hiding, which is exactly what he did the moment he heard footsteps approaching from the house. He knew he’d be safe on the highest shelf, in the shadows — as long as he didn’t move a muscle.

The big stinky human had been sleeping in the corner when he’d arrived. With a quick sniff, the pack rat determined he wasn’t a threat and decided to go straight for his prize: the large tin of oat treats up on the top shelf. Without making a sound, he’d scampered up the rake, hopped onto some plastic bins, then pulled himself up to the top shelf.

The humans usually closed the metal tin where they kept the oat treats, but lately the young human had gotten into the habit of leaving it off altogether. The mistake had prompted the packrat to make nightly trips to the feed shed to help fatten up his pregnant mate. Both her lack of movement and her bulging belly were signs that it wouldn’t be long before he had many more little mouths to feed.

Tonight, he planned on doing nothing but scurrying back and forth between the feed shed and their den under the woodpile. If he pilfered what was left in the tin, the whole mischief would have plenty to eat for weeks.

Of course, such bold thievery would alert the humans of their presence. Hopefully they wouldn’t start leaving those deadly traps everywhere, like they had last spring. He and his mate knew better, but the little ones could be lured by the bait. Over the years, no matter how many had perished — which was about half — it was always heartbreaking to find one with a mouth full of cheese and a broken spine.

The footsteps grew closer and someone kicked open the shed door. It was the young human.

Oh, no! Is he here to close the tin?

The stinky human woke up. At first, they both smelled scared, but the young human gave the other a blanket and the scared smell went away. They started making all those loud mouth noises, as humans do. The young human left and came back a few times, bringing water, food, and clothes. The packrat stayed as still as the moon. The packrat could wait until they left.

Suddenly, there were shouts outside. It was the older human. The smell of fear filled the shed once again.

There were more mouth noises between the young human and the stinky human, much quieter now and much more panicked. The young human took a knife from another shelf. He held it to his own throat, motioned to the stinky human, then to the shed door. The stinky human shook his head, but after hearing more shouts from the older human outside, he took the knife and grabbed the young man.

For what seemed like forever, the old man yelled from outside while the two inside trembled and sweat. The smell of fear was almost too much for the packrat to stomach, but he stayed put. He’d gotten through tougher situations — like the time the snake wandered into their den, or the time they had that visit from the owl. Each time, his instinct had saved him. And instinct for a packrat pretty much consisted of knowing when to stay put and when to run. If things got worse, he’d bolt back to the den.

The shouting got louder. Fear became as thick as fog. The packrat scanned the darkness for an escape route. He was in luck. At the far end of the top shelf there was an empty knothole in a wooden slat, just big enough for him to squeeze through.

Another human voice began shouting, just outside the shed. The old human joined in. The packrat’s whiskers twitched like they did when something awful as about to happen.

Just then, the stinky human and the young human stepped through the shed door. The packrat waited to see if the smell of fear would dissipate, but instead, it came on stronger.

More shouts. More fear. More danger.

If anything happened to him, his whole mischief would starve. He’d have to run away and come back later when the humans were gone. The packrat eyed the knothole and traced a path through the stuff stacked on the shelf. He could make it. He had to.

The packrat bolted. He scrambled over a few sacks, then darted behind some plastic boxes. He scurried with such focus that he didn’t notice the metal tin of oat treats sitting right on the edge of the shelf. As he squeezed against the wall he felt his wide haunch make contact with the tin, sending it flying over the edge.

Oh, well. I’m sure I can find more food, he thought as he escaped through the knothole.

The first bang he heard was the loud clanging of the tin against the floor. The next was an ear-shattering explosion, just outside the shed.

The packrat slipped down the wood slat, scurried across the dark desert terrain, and dove into the safety of his woodpile den.

Chad

One side of Isaac’s throat exploded, spraying a mist of blood across the moonlit dirt.

The beaner had twitched at the sound of the bang, inadvertently pulling the boy directly into the crosshairs. Before the echo of the shot left Chad’s ears, an icy, dreamlike fog fell over him. He lowered his gun slightly, his mind racing to weigh the situation.

Stupid fucking beaner!

Everything’s fucked!

I’m fucked!

Unless…

There was only one way out of this mess. Only one way to salvage the night, his reputation, his career.

Chad raised his firearm, aimed, and unloaded his entire magazine. Two more rounds struck the boy — one in the shoulder and one in the stomach. Three found the beaner. The rest turned the shed to swiss cheese.

Somewhere behind him, a woman was wailing hysterically. Chad peeled his eyes from the two corpses in the doorway and turned to look toward the gazebo.

He had just enough time to register the old man’s furious scowl, the hot tears in his eyes, the barrel of his six-shooter. He noticed those things and realized his own gun was empty. As he reached to tap the mic on his shoulder, there was a flash of light from the old man’s barrel.

Uncle Chuck will be so disappointed in me, was the last thought Chad’s brain formed before a bullet tore through it and turned it to mush.

Ellen

Ellen sat at her dinner table, deaf to the chaos around her. She didn’t understand how her bad heart hadn’t blown a valve. She wished it would.

Blue and red lights flashed everywhere. At least they’d turned off the sirens, and the helicopters had gone. Still, police paraded through every door of her house, tracking dirt across her freshly vacuumed carpet.

None of them made eye contact. Even the few times she’d been questioned, the deputies fixed their eyes on their clipboards.

Her son was gone. Her dear, sweet, handsome, athletic, smart, loving, intelligent son was gone. Forever. Why was her heart still going if it had nothing left to beat for? It made no sense.

Her husband had been taken into custody for murdering a law enforcement officer. They’d roughed him up quite a bit before then. She’d heard his old bones crack when they piled on him. She’d cried out for them to stop, but then cowered when they answered with a look that said, “Would you like to join him, ma’am?”. How could they be so cold? It made no sense.

The illegal man had been taken away by ambulance. They said he might make it. He was going to receive medical treatment, paid for by hard-working, tax-paying citizens, and he wasn’t even supposed to be in America. It was all his fault. How could God be so unfair? It made no sense.

And her heart, as old and sick as it was, should have given out as soon as she saw her boy with a knife to his throat. If not then, watching him die should have done the trick. It made no sense for her to still be alive amid such horror.

Suddenly, only one thing made sense to Ellen. The deputies had found most of Abe’s guns, but they didn’t find the small pistol he kept under a rock out by the barn. She hadn’t understood why she’d failed to tell them about, but now it made sense. Somewhere in her mind, she’d known this was the answer.

Ellen would wait for them to finish their investigation. She’d answer their questions, sign their forms. She’d watch the last cruiser drive down the dirt road, waiting long enough to make sure they were out of earshot.

Then she’d walk out to the barn, find Abe’s hidden gun, point it at her chest, and put her heart to rest once and for all.