Read Online The Only Road by Alexandra Diaz - Free Book Online Page B

partition of one of the storefronts: “ ¡Váyanse centro americanos! ” followed by rude words. The graffiti gleamed with fresh spray paint.
    â€œThey don’t want us here,” Jaime said under his breath.
    Ãngela stood on her toes as if the extra height would help her see their destination. “No one knows we’re here.”
    â€œNot us, you and me. Us, Central Americans.” Jaime pointed to the tag that seemed to bleed from the store.
    Ãngela pressed her lips and then turned away quickly. “We need to find this refugee shelter.”
    â€œWhat’s it called again?”
    â€œIglesia de Santo Domingo.”
    â€œWhich way is it?”
    â€œI don’t know, I don’t know!” she cried, and hid her face in her hands. Jaime tried to place a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him away. “Stop with all the questions!”
    Ãngela crumbled onto the concrete. Jaime crouched next to her and put his arm around her. This time she didn’t resist. In his head he heard what Tía, Ángela’s mother, always said when one of the children cried: He’s just tired. Poor thing needs to sleep.
    Tired. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He had fallen asleep in Pancho’s truck; he had dozed off in the bus. He never thought whether Ángela had as well. He didn’t even know if she had slept the night before.
    He licked his lips. He wasn’t used to worrying about other people. That was Mamá’s job. And Ángela’s. And Miguel’s. What would Miguel do?
    The answer came as if Miguel were right there whispering in his ear: break things down and look at everything logically. Un paso a la vez . One step at a time.
    Jaime gave Ángela’s shoulder an extra squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. First thing we have to do is find this church. We’ll have to ask someone.” Preferably not the old man who was now shouting random words at the light post.
    Ãngela took a deep breath as she tried to regain control.“We have to be careful. The security checkpoints we went through, they weren’t just for drug traffic. Remember the Salvadoran woman. Los mexicanos really don’t like us. They think we’re all criminals and not as worthy in the eyes of God.”
    He knew all this, of course. He knew their lives were at stake. Just as he knew what would happen if they were sent home. “We have to find this church. We can’t sleep here.”
    â€œRight.” Ángela stood up, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll have to find a pay phone and use our last pesos to call Papá. Hopefully he can get ahold of Padre Lorenzo, who can—”
    Jaime waved her to stop. His attention returned to the graffiti like a magnet pull. Something was written under the hateful words. He edged closer to the grass median that divided the bus station parking lot from the street, to be sure he read correctly. “God welcomes all at Santo Domingo, 17A. Norte.”
    â€œÃngela, look!” He pointed at the writing. “Could it be a trick?” The address could lead them straight into whatever gang ran Arriaga or into la migra headquarters. But he had a feeling they could trust it. Late as it was, with no one around to ask, it was their best option. There were no pay phones in sight.
    â€œWe don’t have another option,” Ángela said. “We have to try it.”
    The street corner in front of the bus station told them what number avenue they were on and the cross street in front. Assuming Arriaga worked on a grid of some kind (as Tapachula had, as well as the villages back home) with number streets going up or down, they should eventually find the church. If they had the right address.
    They followed the dark paved highway until it crossed the railroad tracks and the streets changed from sur to norte , but then encountered a series of wrong turns.
    In the dark, in a strange