Dawn Patrol

89

The girl Luce lies on a bare, dirty mattress.

She's sad and scared, but somewhat comforted by the presence of the other girls, who lie around her like a litter of puppies. She can feel the warmth of their skin, hear their breathing, smell their bodies, the sour but familiar smell of sweat and dirt.

In the background, a shower nozzle drips with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.

Luce tries to sleep, but when she closes her eyes, she sees the same thing-a man's feet as seen from under the hotel bed. She hears Angela's muffled cry, sees her feet being lifted. Feels again her own terror and shame as she cowered under the bed as the feet walked out again. Remembers lying there in an agony of indecision-to stay hidden or run. Recalls the nerve it took to get up, go to the balcony, and look over the edge. Sees again the hideous sight-Angela's broken body. Like a doll tossed on a trash pile back in Guanajuato.

Now she hears footsteps again. She pulls the thin blanket tightly over her shoulders and clamps her eyes shut-if she cannot see, perhaps she cannot be seen.

Then she hears a man's rough voice.

“Which one is she?”

Heavy footsteps as men walk around the mattresses, stop, and walk again. She pulls the blanket tighter, squeezes her eyes shut until they hurt. But it does no good. She feels the feet stop above her, then hears a man say:

“This one.”

She doesn't open her eyes when she feels the big hand on her shoulder. She risks moving her hand to grab the cross on her neck and squeeze it, as if it could prevent what she knows is going to happen. Hears the man say, “It's all right, nena. No one is going to hurt you.”

Then she feels herself being lifted.