The Same Sky by Amanda Eyre Ward Page A

brother’s sleeping face that I would lose him. I did not know when or how, but I was sure now that my time with him was limited. I swore to be more vigilant, to keep him next to me no matter who—or what—tried to take him away. Despite my vows, I was filled with the cold knowledge that I would fail.
    In the morning, we resumed walking, ignoring our bloody ankles. Both Junior and I had good American sneakers, and we had begun the journey with three pairs of clean socks. (Junior’s socks had been eaten by the river. I gave him mine.)
    Ernesto wore plastic soccer sandals, which looked cool but offered him no support. I thought he was kind of an idiot, if handsome. Around midmorning, we came upon a town, and I opened the coffee can and bought us tortillas, eggs, and cold water. We sat in the shade of a jacaranda tree to eat. “You need bandages,” commented Ernesto, gesturing to my feet. When I explained that I had no bandages, he pulled my feet into his lap and inspected them. “Feet, be good,” said Ernesto. Lavender blooms fell from the tree, dusting our hair.
    “He loves you,” whispered my brother.
    “He talks to feet,” I said. Still, my feet seemed to hurt less as we trekked, leaving the town and heading up amountainous trail. Junior whined that he was tired, and I reminded him to just put one step after another step. He glared at me, but I thought this was a useful way to think—just keep moving along the path, without worry for what lies ahead or what you’ve left behind.
    Ernesto knew where to board a bus, taking my money to pay our fare. It felt sweet to sit down after walking for so long, to have a moment to feel my brother’s head loll on my shoulder, to watch the eucalyptus trees and the verdant fields. (“Verdant” is my favorite English word so far, but I have not yet finished reading Webster’s New Century Dictionary .) When we entered one small town, a woman climbed on the bus and gave us bread and water for free. “God bless you,” she said, handing us the food.
    It was a new day before Ernesto told us to get off the bus. “We walk from here,” he said. “There’s a checkpoint ahead.” It was hard to leave the spongy bus seat, and my legs were sore and creaky. Still, we disembarked, leaving the paved road entirely, making our way to a worn trail. We trod along switchbacks as the sun grew fierce, finally reaching what seemed to be the top of something. “How far are we from Mexico?” I questioned.
    “Don’t ask,” he answered. He put his hands on his hips, then pointed. In the distance, I could make out another town. “Tapachula,” said Ernesto, adding, “Mexico.”
    “Will we get there tonight?” said Junior. His voice was a small, cornered animal.
    “If you shut up and walk,” said Ernesto.
    We shut up. We walked.

    Ernesto had twice been caught by immigration entering Chiapas. Once he had been robbed. There were a few ways to cross, but Ernesto explained that if we had money, we should hire someone to carry us on a raft. I figured we might as well spend our lempiras now, rather than wait to be robbed of them later. The Rio Bravo seemed a world away, and I knew God would provide.
    “I have the money,” I said.
    Ernesto led us to the Suchiate, a much larger river than we’d crossed before. He bargained with a stumpy man in a baseball cap, then told me to give the man all of my money. I shook my head, and Ernesto stared at me stonily. I saw there was no room for discussion.
    “You owe me,” I told Ernesto, reaching into my pack and giving the man the coffee can. Ernesto laughed—that joyless sound again.
    The man took us one at a time, Ernesto first. As Junior and I stood on the bank, watching Ernesto cross, I wondered if Ernesto would leave us behind. I told myself we would be fine without him, but I did not believe myself. “I want to go with you,” said Junior. “I don’t want to be on either side without you.”
    I pulled him close. The man returned with the