Miguel glances at Francisco with raised eyebrows, like, What’s up with that?, because the old man normally heads right for the shower to wash off the sweat and plaster dust before the family has dinner. The newscaster is talking about a wildfire that’s burning out of control east of San Diego. Papá shoos Miguel and Francisco off the couch and sits in front of the TV, leaning forward to watch intently. Mamá pokes her head in from the kitchen, a worried look on her face, and Miguel can tell she’s freaked too by the change in routine. “What’s going on?” she says. “A fire at the border,” Papá replies. Mamá walks into the living room, a dish towel twisted in her hands. “And so?” “Alberto and Maria are crossing tonight.” Alberto is Miguel’s cousin, Papá’s nephew. Maria is his wife. They live in the village outside Durango where Papá was born, a place so small it doesn’t even have a name.
