The weakness—from no water and bad air—it creeps in like a fog, pulling the life out of us with every breath. I know this because when I move away from the pipe, I can feel it—a drifting out of myself. I am used to the heat because up in the Sierra, the sun is closer than God, but in here it reminds me of a game we played after school when I lived in the pueblo. Chuy, the witch’s son, taught it to us. He called it Ojo de Dios, God’s Eye, and you play it with the sun and a piece of glass. It is like a test—how much pain, and the smell is terrible. I still have the marks. I haven’t thought of it in a long time but I am thinking of it now. This and the water. Dying of thirst, there is a madness that takes over a person. I heard it, but I tried not to see it. You will take off your clothes no matter who is there and you will suck on anything to make the saliva come—coins, scapulars, your wedding ring, maybe some stone. It is like being a baby again—you turn into one big mouth.
