Her mother carried with her the things she needed for her journey to the other world. A soft white cotton bag that Serafina had filled with chocolate and sugar and a tiny wooden molinillo to beat the foam. Two tortillas. Five pesos. A small bar of soap, a small bottle of water.

Her mother's papery, corn-husk voice would be gone when they closed the box. Her soft brown neck, where Serafina had cried so many times, her mother's collarbone wet when she finally let go. Dona Crescencia said, "You will keep your mother's rosary? It is yours now."

The rosary twined in her fingers. "No," Serafina said. "It was her mother's. It is still hers."

Last week, when her mother was fading, Serafina had thought she would call out the names of her husband and sons. Claudio. Luis. Rigoberto. But her mother spoke to her own mother. "Na," she said. When her mother called out the word again and again, "Na, na," Serafina lay on the dirt floor near the cookstove and screamed into her rebozo so no one would hear. Her daughter would have called for her over and over, screamed at the car window.

When the husk slipped easily from a rubbed kernel, Serafina washed the corn until the thin skins rose into tiny drifting pockets on the water's surface. Nuni saha. She remembered the Cap'n Crunch, the sweet corn dust on Elvia's fingers.

Nine days later, Serafina made mole coloradito, the red sauce, for the raising of the cross. While people sprinkled holy water on the flower-laden cross at the family altar, Dona Crescencia begged Serafina not to leave. "They hate Mixtecos there-remember the Cortez brothers?"

The four Cortez brothers had left for the border last year. The coyote who drove them in a crowded pickup through back roads didn't stop for la migra's sirens and crashed the truck in a ravine. The bodies were sent back to San Cristobal naked, bruised, and bloody, in cardboard boxes. When the lids were removed, the entire pueblo screamed at the disrespect for the dead.

Serafina shook her head. "Everyone else is already gone." August was harvest time, and Serafina imagined the people at the border like swarms of birds, all trying to get through a hole in the straw roof at once, circling and circling while some slipped inside at each pass.

Her uncle lay in his bed; days after he had carried the coffin, his back still ached. Serafina mixed cloves and turpentine in the molcajete, smeared the paste on a cloth, and lay it on his lower back. Before her uncle could speak, she hurried outside.

The church smelled as it always did, of roses and wax and sweet smoke. She would never be home again, in this familiar light, with the tilted faces of santos she had known all her life. "You are everywhere," she whispered to la Virgen de Guadalupe. Serafina kissed the metal lighter from the Nova, the shiny black knob, the circle that had glowed red. She placed it near the candles and flowers and photos. "If you let me get to Tijuana, I will give something else for the rest of the journey. When I lost my daughter, I was only looking for you."

The white-petaled flowers on the cross were wilted by all the touching. Serafina wondered if her mother's bag of possessions had comforted her. In her own cloth bag, she had Rigoberto's money. A few clothes. Her rosary. And at the last minute she had washed the gray stone molcajete, the round bowl with tiny legs her mother had used every day until she gave it to Serafina. She had put the smooth pestle inside and wrapped the bundle with a shirt.

Outside, she touched the stone sink, still wet from her washing dishes, and the comal, still warm from her cooking. Where she was going, nothing was permanent, carved of stone.

She walked down to the main road to Manuel Jimenez's truck. He drove people from Oaxaca to Tijuana now. The men waited, their cigarettes glowing inside the windshield and floating in the truck bed. When her shoulder was pressed to the window and the truck was moving, she kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see what was sliding past the glass, away from her. She could feel Florencio's elbow. She held the barrettes, not needing to see the rubbed shine, the silver bars she had mouthed and touched until they were fragile stripes of light in her palm.

the sands.

"Stop cryin, or they'll think somethin's wrong and they won't take her," Callie said angrily when Elvia's tears fell onto the little girl's arm.

Her father and Callie argued in jagged whispers while Jeffrey screamed from the floorboards, angry that another little body had taken his place on Elvia's lap. Elvia stared at the half-sleeping face, touched the leathery red cheek. "The hospital's in Desert Hot Springs," Callie said.

When the truck pulled up at the circle drive, Callie said, "I'm carryin Jeffrey, and nobody's gonna think nothin bad cause I'm a mother. I'll just say we found her wanderin." Her voice was still gravel-edged and fast. "Pick her up."

Elvia carried her, one arm around the ribs, one under the tiny bottom, and she felt the hands on her back. The little girl was limp, but she held Elvia's shoulder blades like they were handles. Then the door slid open and the emergency room nurse was staring at them.

Callie said, "We were drivin back from my mother's house and we seen a fire. Found her in the street, we don't know who she is or nothin."

The nurse said, "I'll be right back with some papers for you." Her shoes squeaked.

Callie took Elvia's elbow with a grip hard as pliers'. "Put her down." Elvia couldn't. The little girl's fingers dug into her bones, holding tight. "Put her down and move, Ellie. Now." Callie pried the fingers from Elvia's shirt with one hand, and Elvia felt the little girl sliding down her side. She bent and put her on the chair. "Don't you cry, goddamnit," Callie whispered, pushing her toward the door. "Don't."

Elvia looked back at the little girl staring at her until the door slid shut and she saw only their own figures moving away from the reflection.

"Don't get out yet," her father said to her when Callie and Jeff went into the house. "Ellie. We're bookin up. Okay? Now go grab what you need. Just one bag of stuff."

In the bedroom, Jeffrey watching, Elvia dropped stones and clothes into a grocery sack. Pain like lightning pulsed through her head. If she'd stayed in the kitchen to put the baby's diaper on, just a few more minutes, she'd be dead, too. She and her own maybe baby.

Jeff poked her legs. "Ellie," he said.

Her father shouted outside. "Ellie!"

"Okay!" she yelled back, going outside, dropping her paper bag at her feet. "What? What the fuck does everybody want?" Callie stopped pacing near the truck bed where Larry was throwing duffle bags. "Oh, I can't cuss, but I can take care of Jeff all fuckin day and miss class? I can almost get killed cause you guys handle your speed worse than faders at school?"

"You better watch your mouth, cause you aren't grown," her father said, and she glared at him. Yeah, I am, she thought. You just don't know.

But Callie was staring at Elvia's grocery bag. "You're takin your little squaw-girl likes to play Indian?" she yelled. "You goin with him, Ellie? This fuckin idiot?"

Elvia's father's smile was square and long, like a zipper under his mustache. "I'm only an idiot cause I'm outta here," he said. "I was a fuckin genius when I was layin pipe all day and you were at the casino, right? You hung out with the Indians runnin video poker. And I was okay drivin you to Sage tonight and you could a got Ellie killed."

"I took care of her better than her real mama," Callie shouted. She turned to Elvia. "Your real mama ain't Indian, she's just a Mescan. And if she was a good Mescan, she wouldn't a dumped you. Cause usually they don't."

"How do you know?" Elvia said. Her eyes burned, staring at her father.

"Her name's Serafina Mendez. Look." Callie grabbed a toolbox and pried the lid open. She dumped out wrenches and a hammer. "I seen it. Look." She held up a plastic card.

"What the hell are you . . ." Elvia's father began, but Callie held the card out to Elvia.

No picture of her mother. Only words under the dull, scratched laminate.

Clinico Medico de Tijuana Serafina Estrella Mendez Miscelanea Yoli Colonia Pedregal Tijuana Mexico "See," Callie hissed. "And he's got one with a picture."

"No, I don't," he said, his face twisted in anger. "We're outta here. Come on, Ellie."

"I seen her picture once," Callie insisted. "That's her name. For reals. She lives right over the border. Two-hour drive. It ain't Mars. If she wanted you, she could a came to get you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elvia said to her father, the card thin as a leaf in her fingers.

"Tell you what?" he shouted back. "That when your mom bailed, she left that and some clothes and some burned-up candles? Big deal. She forgot to pack you, too." He closed up the toolbox, threw the last bags into the truck, then nodded toward the open passenger door. Elvia slid the card between her fingers. Her mother-in Tijuana?

"She was an asshole just like you!" Callie said, starting to cry. "Runnin away! I can't believe you're takin Ellie." Her skin was dented in dark-green places at the jaw, her gums were scored with purple marks when she opened her mouth, and Elvia realized Callie hadn't eaten in days. "I don't believe this shit. I've been tryin to take care of your kid . . ."

"I got a job in Nevada, okay?"

". . . and you take off."

"The rent's paid till the 30th."

"You and her," Callie cried. "Choice, like you always say. Real choice shit." Elvia got in the truck. She saw Jeff's fingers appear on the door frame. She waited for the rest of his arm, for his face. He poked his bird-feather hair around. Callie said, "You're pickin her over me."

Elvia's father stopped moving, smiled again. "Wouldn't you pick him over me?" he asked, nodding at Jeff, who stared into the truck wheels.

Callie didn't glance down. Elvia saw her rake her thin hair into a ponytail and tie it into a knot. "Well, shit," she said. "Well, shit. You're pickin for me."

He slammed the door, and when they reached the end of the driveway the sand flew from under the tires and stung Elvia's arm hanging out the window.

When they'd parked in the slot for number 11 at the Sands Motel, Elvia said, "I can't believe we're back here again."

Her father's voice was softer than usual. "We're just here till I figure somethin out."

"You know what I can't figure out?" Elvia couldn't look at him. She felt the ID card against her thigh. "Why we never stay anywhere."

Her father still held the wheel, his knuckles big as dirt clods. "Callie owes this guy money."

"Dually. He fronted her some speed. Like I don't know. Hell, Jeff probably knows."

"You don't know," her father said, rubbing his forehead. "It's not funny. When he doesn't get his cash, he takes people instead. People like you."

Elvia shivered, looking at the row of red doors, bulbs lit near each one like small, angry suns. "This is where we came the first time," she said. "When you got me from Sandy Narlette's. And we still don't have shit."

He leaned his head back, his goatee pointing at the windshield. "I can't believe you drove down the hill. You were drivin when you were little. All you wanted to do was sit in that Nova."

He always remembers me as a little kid, she thought. Not who I am. "If I hadn't taken us down the hill, we'd all be dead. Those kids . . ."

"That's their mom's fault, okay?" But his voice shook a little. "Hey," he said, pretending to turn the wheel now. "You used to sit like this forever, drivin wherever little kids drive. Pullin out all the dash knobs. You always wanted me to put you in the car. Your mom couldn't drive."

"Then how the hell did she leave?"

Her father stared at her. "She figured it out somehow. She acted like she didn't know anything, but she figured out what she wanted. Callie's right. If she wanted you, she'd a came by now." He opened the truck door. "Let's go. I gotta be at the quarry before the sun comes up."

He didn't turn on the light, only put his things down on one bed. She sat on the bed closest to the air conditioner. "You're going back to work at the quarry? With Warren?"

"For a month or so. I need some cash."

"I want to go to Tijuana. Look for her." He threw his head back and she knew she had about thirty seconds before he shut down.

"I hate talkin about this shit."

"I know," Elvia said, quietly. "But I have to find out." She watched him light a cigarette and lean against the door. He wasn't with Warren or Callie or Dually. Nobody was laughing or arguing; the TV was silent.

She wondered how speed felt in your brain. Like Windex, working on each cell, shining them up, but then so strong it started eating them, too? She remembered the smell from Lee's stove.

He looked at the ID card in her hand. "Why do you want to find her so bad? When somebody doesn't want to be where you are, even if you chase em and catch em, so what? If Callie found me right now, I'd just book up again."

The card was smudged and dirty. She saw a black fingerprint. Big. His.

"You kept looking at this," she said. "Did you try to go there?"

He nodded, smoke drifting from his goatee. "Couple weeks later. I was in jail when she left. Bar fight. Then when I went down to TJ, it was a nightmare, Ellie. All these beggars and kids and drunks. Like a shitty MTV video. I wandered around for two days, couldn't even find the Yoli place. Got my radio and tools ripped off. Came home and figured, why would she go back to that? Take you back to that? I figured she went the opposite way-LA, Frisco. Wherever . . ." Then he pointed the cigarette at her. "And when I found out you were in foster, then I figured, hell, she didn't go back to Mexico. She decided to start over. She dumped you cause you were a burden, Ellie. Probably ended up someplace a lot better than here."

He opened the door to go, and she said, "Maybe she found another guy cause you were too hard to live with. Maybe she has ten kids now. How old was she? When she had me?"

He was pissed now. "I don't know. Old enough."

"You had a kid with her and you didn't even know anything about her? Way great courtship. Rattlesnakes take a week, you know, cruising around before they do it. How'd you meet her?"

"It doesn't matter." He was facing the parking lot.

"Romantic."

"I was tryin to help her out."

Elvia laughed. "Same thing you said about Callie. Help women out and then dump them."

"Oh, but you're fuckin up there," he said, turning. "Other way around, remember?"

"No shit. She dumped us both."

"Ellie." He threw the cigarette butt into the parking lot and pointed to the card. "Don't set yourself up. Don't expect anything. Ever."

"You already taught me that," she snapped. "Look at where I am." Elvia stopped, stricken by the floating feel under her ribs. In this tiny motel room, he'd eventually notice her soft, expanding belly. And he would be past ballistic. When she lay on the bumpy spread, she heard him lock the door.

The air conditioner hummed in the window. She saw the gray dust thick on the metal slats, like the ash from the fire, and when new headlights shone round and white on the window shade, they were as empty as the little girl's glittering eyes.

Elvia buried her face in her jacket and sobbed until her face was bathed in stinging salt. The little girl had sucked her thumb, her eyes closed, her arms already callused by the fire's heat. She would have marks forever, to remind her of the night her mother and brothers swirled into dark sky, glowing. She would float around in shelter homes, in strange kitchens, just like Elvia had, with no mother to catch her.

She rested her face on the wet jean jacket, breathing through her damp hair. Who would ever hold the little girl's burned-scarlet face again? We told the nurse we found her. Someone found me, in the church parking lot. Was my mom taking me inside, to leave me on one of those benches? Sandy Narlette said some moms are better able to take care of kids than others, just like cats and dogs. Animals. She said don't get mad.

She got up now, her empty head ringing, and turned on the TV so the screen could flash videos, but she left the sound down to a whisper, like someone was in a kitchen, at a table nearby. She didn't want to smell the strangeness of the bedspread, so she piled her own clothes around her. She could smell herself. She was scared. She wanted to hear the truck come back.

Her father's boots crunched the sand outside like broken glass. She heard him talking to Warren, who'd lived at the Sands forever. She moved the window shade aside. The motel's horseshoe shape was filled now with cars and trucks. All the shades were drawn, like hers, shielding dim, jumpy light from TVs. The windows flickered amber around the asphalt like burned-low campfires, and the mesquite tree was smoky gray in the center.

Their voices were fast and raspy as the cicadas in the trees. They carried McDonald's bags and six-packs. In the harsh light of the naked bulb outside their room, Warren's brown hair faded flat away from his broad forehead, and he was even skinnier than he was the last time. He had white lines like spiderwebs near his eyes and on his neck. "Man, it's been a while. Hell, look at the fuckin red doors. Indians own the place now, man, live in number one."

"Indians?" her father said.

"Fuckin Indian Indians, bud, with the funny clothes. Rag-heads."

Her father opened the door and peered into the darkness. He turned on the small light, and Elvia imagined watching the light from their window fill up the horseshoe so that the campfire circle was unbroken.

He put one bag and a cup on the little table. "Your favorite."

Elvia took the vanilla milkshake and sucked hard on the straw. The grains hit the roof of her mouth like grit turning to snow. Her father had taken her to the snow once, to the top of Mt. San Jacinto. Michael said he'd climbed Mt. San Jacinto with an uncle on the Soboba reservation. He never stayed anywhere for long. She thought of his fingers on her face, his whispering: "You definitely got good blood. Look at you."

She shivered when her father turned up the clattering air conditioner. "I'm gonna drink another beer with Warren," her father said. "I'll be back."

Milk pooled sweet at the back of her throat. She had tasted Callie's beer once, washing bitter gold down her throat, leaving nothing behind. She tried to imagine the vanilla shake raining down on a baby, a thumbnail-sized baby inside her, but she couldn't picture anything even close.

The cicadas had stopped their humming when she turned off the air conditioner and opened the door. She looked at the mountains above, but she had no idea where the moon would rise here.

Every month, the full moon rose in Sandy Narlette's laundry room window. When Elvia had arrived there the second time, when she wouldn't talk, Sandy would sit her on the dryer; while she loaded clothes, Sandy would say, "Elvia, tell me when that fat, bright moon sits on the telephone wire outside. Tell me. I love those few minutes when it's balancing. When it's a highwire moon."

Elvia remembered exactly how it looked-like it could stop going on the same path it took every month, like it could roll sideways instead, suddenly deciding to visit a whole new place, riding the silvery wire, raising starry sparks.