Free La Linea by Ann Jaramillo Page A

everywhere.
    One, a woman they called Angelita, sat outside the shabby clinic, telling her story to anyone who would listen. The train had cut off both of her legs midthigh when she lost her grip and fell beneath the wheels. She would have died if two others hadn’t jumped off to drag her from beneath the train and stop the blood flowing from her limbs.
    Another, called Santos, wheeled himself clumsily through the zócalo, begging for money so he could return to his family in Honduras. He was paralyzed from the waist down and all four fingers of his right hand were gone. They said that Santos was pushed off the train. Someone wanted his place on a ladder that already held five others.
    â€œWe’re going to hop the mata gente anyway,” I declared to Elena.
    We watched Santos steer his wheelchair toward the bus station. There were always people there willing to give up a peso or two, out of guilt. They were getting out of here. Santos had to stay.
    â€œOkay, Miguel. We’re young and fast, right Miguel?” Elena added. “Maybe Santos was just too slow, or something.”
    I didn’t remind her that we had no choice.
    We walked to the train yard in the early evening. A gentle breeze lifted up some scattered papers. Halfway there, Elena skipped, then hopped, then showed me just once how fast she could run.
    â€œSee? See, Miguel?” she said. “I can do it!”
    â€œI know!” I yelled to her. “ ¡Sí se puede! We will, Elena!”
    Things had changed between us. I knew how it felt to be macho, to try to boss Elena around, to ignore her, to fight with her, like I did in San Jacinto. Things felt different now, since Morales, since Colmillo and Juanito.
    We crossed through the yard littered with sidetracked, broken-down freight cars. I put my ear down on a track to listen for the train, the way Chuy and Lalo and I used to do in San Jacinto. The hot fat metal rail held no clues.
    I crawled up into one of the cars and pulled Elena up after me. Its big doors gaped open, and we sat with our legs dangling down. From here we could see the mata gente coming. We’d have time to position ourselves and to get ready.
    In the near distance, a small group was making its way into the train yard. One of them pointed and gestured and moved his body along a track as if he was shadowing a moving train. He loped, picked up speed, and grabbed an imaginary ladder. And then I heard a familiar voice, talking nonstop to the others.
    â€œSee, this is how you do it,” he instructed. “You just run and then hop right on!”
    â€œLook who’s here, Miguel!” Elena yelled, jumping down. “Come on!”
    Within seconds, Javier had Elena in a giant abrazo. He reached out to pull me into the circle. I felt myself resist, but Elena grabbed my waist and tugged me in closer. We made a triangle, Javi and Elena the base, me floating loosely at the top.
    â€œI knew I’d see you again. It is fate, really,” Javi said.
    Javi’s companions, a young couple, the woman pregnant, smiled at the reunion. Then they turned around and left, going back the way they came.
    â€œThey’re scared of the train. I told them what to do, but who knows? Maybe they’ll try, maybe they won’t,” Javier said in one breath.
    â€œGood thing you’re leaving. I’m glad to get out of here myself,” he continued. “Morales stuck me in jail for a day. He never figured out I tricked him. Then he put me on the other side of the river. But, just like I told you, here I am, again.”
    Javi seemed happy, even joyful, about tricking Morales and making it back. But his eyes were red, and his face was drawn. He hadn’t slept, I could see that.
    Within seconds, Javi put himself in charge. He took each of us by an arm and propelled us down the train tracks. “We’ll get the train down there.”
    He pointed beyond the end of the yard toward the dense