Free Red Lightning by Laura Pritchett

sins too. Perhaps they are the greatest sins of all.
    *
    Redemption is found in the most unusual of activities, and so when Amber says her homework is something she can handle easily, on my own (which means I need a moment to myself ), I go to the kitchen to make a salad.
    Redemption is found in love, and if you want to know if you’re a loving person, ask the person you’re with if they feel loved.
    Redemption is found in remembrance. I remember Alejandra. She was far off in the distance when I first saw her, a broad brush-stoke of humanchild in the middle of hugedesert . (Like Amber, a backpack on her shoulders. Unlike Amber, she was standing alone when I first saw her, alone in a verystill verydangerous world.) When I parked the pickup and walked toward her, I could see the basic situation: a groupof humans huddled under the branches of a mesquite tree. They’d snapped off creosote branches and were huddled below them, to make a canopy, to conceal, to console, and I was thinking of how similar it was to a rattlesnake, curling around sage in order to stay cool.
    All the faces turned to me, and there was a small burst of energy: to determine if I was friend or foe, although they hardly had the energy to care. This girl whistled and, when I got closer, called out to me, “ Hola, güerita bonita .” As if she had already determined that I was good, beautiful, worth loving.
    I stood there, staring at her. It took me a moment to understand that they had arrived sooner than I’d been told, that their milk jugs of water were empty, that they had been waiting and waiting for me. As I got closer, I could smell them, the blood and stink and perhaps even burnt flesh. I could see their blistered lips, ripped shoes, deadeyes. I could see the coming of hyperthermia, dehydration. Their story, which came in fragments, was similar to every other story I’d heard, but unique in the particulars of their souls. All from Chiapas, all going to Denver to meet cousins. To work on tennis courts. They’d been told that the walk was only a day or two and that two gallons of water each would suffice. A coyote lie. They’d been told I’d be there two days ago.
    The kid, Alejandra, was squatting over the woman who I later learned was her mother, Lupe. Alejandra’s black hair was caught in knots and greasy enough to hold the dirt. Blisters all over her mouth, a bloody scrape that ran alongside her face. She kept saying, “ Mamá, la levantona está aquí! Es una gringa! Una güerita bien bonita! ” She kept licking her lips so that she could smile, completely oblivious to how horrible and beautiful she looked. She kept smiling at me as if I were something special, and the others looked at her as if she were special. Clearly, she’d been given the most water, the last of the food.
    I got water and food and slowly helped them to the truck, one byone, even the men leaning on me, all of us stumbling around, tripping over the bush and the yucca and the prickling floor of the desert, past the empty milk jugs, abandoned clothing, past the sign proclaiming No más cruces en la frontera . We walked as if we were drunk. Piss and blood and dirt and grime. Gagging with the smell of animal, with heat. Finally, the men were able to settle in the back of the horsetrailer— gracias gracias , they kept murmuring—their throats too swollen to make it sound like anything but a blur. Their toes swollen and rotten when they pulled off their shoes.
    I put Lupe and Alejandra up in the cab with me, though it was not protocol and would have sent Slade into a frenzy. But I didn’t care. I was too carefree to care. I wanted them to have air conditioning and comfort. If any vehicle came into sight, they were to crawl under a blanket. Risky, but I felt like a god. Better than a god, because I was trying to temper their suffering.
    They were so grateful for water. They had tears for the crackers, moans at