Chapter 11: The Gate

The cappers never came on Monday.

The Rim's elders had voted Ardith out of her seat.

By Monday noon the notice on our gate was a blank piece of paper my aunt used to wrap tortillas.

My father cried on the porch, once, and told me to tell no one.

I told no one, except Ramiro.

He drove down on Tuesday night and ate supper in the light at last, at my aunt's table, with every cousin watching.

"A supper," he said, "in the light."

"Eat your beans," I said.

His foot touched mine under the table and stayed.

On Wednesday night, at ten, the barrio's dogs started barking.

I was in the clinic yard, closing up, when a black crew-cab truck came down our dirt road with its lights off.

It stopped at the gate.

Three men got out of it.

I knew them from the Count, from the last mile of a hundred-degree day.

They were brothers, tall and wide, in work boots and leather gloves, and the eldest had a gray beard cut square.

In the first life, they had been the ones who ran behind me, closest, when the first mile ended.

I could not breathe.

"Miss Salcido," the eldest said.

He took off his hat.

"We're here for the Warden."

"He isn't here," I said.

"His truck's behind your aunt's."

His voice was deep and slow and not unkind.

"We would like a word."

Behind me, the screen door of the clinic banged.

Ramiro walked out into the yard in his shirtsleeves, wiping his hands on a towel.

He put himself between me and the gate in two long strides.

He did not say anything to me, and he did not look at me.

"Brothers," he said.

"Warden," the eldest said, with a nod.

"Lyle asks that you come home."

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