Red Cap Waiting

The note was nothing, almost. A plastic bag, half-swallowed by the sand, pinned beneath a tangle of mesquite roots. We would have missed it. Should have missed it. But my brother tripped—stupid luck, blind fate—his foot snagging the edge, yanking it loose.

Papá crouched, fished it out, shook off the dirt. Peeled the damp paper from inside. We watched his fingers, his eyes. His mouth formed the words.

Marisol—wait at the second fence. Look for the man in the red cap. Don’t trust anyone else.

Mami’s breath hitched. My brother wiped his hands on his jeans.

None of us were Marisol.

The desert stretched out around us, empty in that way deserts are never really empty. A hundred places for someone to be watching. A thousand ghosts caught between the sun-bleached bones of the land.

Papá folded the note like it meant something. Like it was ours now.

“We keep moving,” he said.

But I kept looking for a red cap.