Miras Chaneques? No. Never. I've never seen them. Son del viejo país, ¿verdad? Máma has seen them many times. On the beaches in the moonlight, the hair of horses in a braid which they clung to floating as the waves crashed on the sandbar. Such things are common. El viejo país.

His car had two dents in the sidedoor and sweet white smoke poured from the hood. I pulled him over and he was scrawny and had a scruffy blonde beard and his eyes darted back and forth like a raccoon in a trap. His I.D. said he'd been in Eugene during the final days. So had I.

Step out of the vehicle.

Two kayaks were on the roof. The straps were blue and old and said N.R.S. and I remembered in Eugene how they strapped big airplane bombs with watches on the roofs of old beat up sedans and I even remember some of the explosions. They make a taut thwunk when I cut them. The foam in the kayaks made a soft sound.

There ain't nothing in there.

Yeah.

I ain't lying. We searched his car para mucho tiempo. There's no water. Where's he going?

Above the dam. Still not much water. We find nothing except a lighter and some lighter fluid and there's not enough lighter fluid to do any damage. We let him go because we find nothing besides the lighter fluid and I feel sorry for him, because I know what Eugene was like, y mamá sabe what it's like when people take everything from you, aún cuando tienes nada. I hear about the melted red plastic in the road later but I don't really care, hay más que calles, hay más que plástica mijo.

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It seldom rains now. I don't know how there's water up there because the last time it rained was three weeks ago. Even though there's no rain the fires rage less than when I was growing up. There used to be trees but now it's just shrub, y ahora los incendios son menos. Levanta sus manos a díos mijo.

People misinterpret me. They see my uniform and think I'm California pero soy Medford. If they knew that they'd hate me even more. I don't care. I pretend that I don't care but I do care. Deeply. They were my people. They were my people but when shit hit the fan they turned their back on me, so que harias que hago? Like the fucking history books. It started with ropes outside nuestra puerta and slurs, beaner, wetback, and soon they made us leave. No one's comfortable killing someone so they made us leave, which was fucking worse. Mama en la calle. California was left. Only one thing they wanted me to do.

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She has the mayan lines etched into her face. Como abuelita. No hay nada aquí señora, ¿por qué viene? She's crying and screaming and the screams come from her son or grandson lying naked on the ground kicked clubbed with California issued S.M.G.s.

Who the fuck cares about you! She cries more Callate! Callate! Puta! And all I do is watch as his dark palm connects with her cheek leaves five distinct fingers. Por favor! Por favor! And the S.M.G. comes down on her too which is good because I hope it means she doesn't see the trail of blood and white translucent fluid that her son or grandson leaves as he is dragged by two arms along the dusty road.

We all saw the bodies. We all know who did it. They said drugs, gangs. Maybe it's true. Seven young men lying on the road, leaking like a broken car. They just left them there. And the others would have seen it. You can see where it is from the tower on the base porque los buitres están allá, never leave the spot. Not even when the drone flies over.

My dad was Russian mi mamá es de Veracruz and I'm Medford. I know one's gone. Mira a la calle mija. I don't know about the other. Before the ropes and the slurs we lived in a trailer with the other beaners and I remember mamá leaving in her uniform blue jeans and a t-shirt that said ABM. Gringos worked there too. She marched in that uniform cuando fuimos a la calle. Her gringos did nothing for her when they saw her marching, sabés joven? Oye, joven, sabés? I did nothing and no one else no hizo nada when she collapsed. Just marched south. Mira a la calle mijo. Es su casa señor.

Their bodies are in the ambulance and they have me and two others drive it along the street close to where the kayak burned. He sees a divot and we get out and throw them on the side not hidden at all. Cracks in the road. Mayan lines.

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The gulf stream slowed and stopped and Maine froze and California took them in. D.C. froze and Utah and Idaho hanged black Bishops porque Zion had no water. Oregon was fine with them. Why should seven million people bathe and fifty two million starve? No Mexicans in Eugene. No Guatemalans, El Salvadorans, Nicaraguans, Africans. Solo gringos. Eagles and swastikas like double zz's spray painted crudely on the planes and the sedans with their blue N.R.S. straps.

The drone flies asusta a los buitres. Intermittent shots every couple hours. Por qué viene? They have me patrolling the camp for a week, enforcing the curfew. Last monday they found Georgious in his uniform beaten, blood in a puddle next to him. The smell of shit wafting from him. After that no paperwork. They barely kept records, anyways. Por qué viene?

She made me stay inside when the smoke got too bad. We shared a tub when the water became rationed and I hated her for that. When we were on the street we didn't bathe but when we made it to Sacramento the camp they had all of us line up in a shower all the kids with their mamas take off their clothes and bathe. They gave us an apartment to ourselves, water was still rationed but they gave us food, water as they looked through our records.

They were scared in Eugene. I remember that. Fat fuckers. No alcohol allowed in the state anymore. Couldn't get rid of the e-cigs and coffee. Or the ritalin. Where was their hate when they surrendered? Where was it when they were shaking with fear as they came out of the airport hands up, one crying, one woman no gun wearing a long patterned dress chanting about how Zion could never fall as they were loaded into the trucks? They asked the bishops what they wanted to do with the bodies and they said cremation was fine. We cremated ourselves too.

I patrol the camp for a week. S.M.G. on my person. Pistol on my person. I know he doesn't trust me to do what he wants me to do, so that's why I only patrol it solo por una semana. He has me patrol the road patrol the pipe. More bodies on the road. ¿Por qué viene mijo?

I disrespected her. I thought she was dumb, didn't know English, all she could do was clean some fucking toilets, take out the fucking trash. And I was right. I cried when they took her. De vuelta a Veracruz.

Fuck Veracruz. Chinga Veracruz. Por qué viene? Immigrant fucks. Todos pueden hacer is clean toilets and die on the road.

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The men in the green C.N.G. uniforms came to the door and I cried. My father in the kitchen, my mother with the C.N.G. Por favor! Por favor! No puedo regresar. They grabbed me and my mom stood on the side of the road. Lo siento mijo. My dad had a small antique derringer and he grabbed it and that's the first body I saw. Perdóname mijo. My mom stood on the side of the road. Entiende, no puedo regresar mijo. Bitch. Puta. The academy where they beat me. The academy where they had me stand in the sun several hours just my solo mi ropa interior. Los sacerdotes wouldn't listen, did worse things to some people than they did to me. They said it made me into a man pero qué soy? Nada. Ni siquiera una máquina.

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Miras Chaneques? He's naked and covered in white curly hair, has feet the size of my feet, hands the size of a toddler. His face is wrinkled como mi abuela, the Mayan lines etched deeper than he or she deserve. He sits on top of the pipe and beckons me. Adónde eres mama? He walks and I follow. En el país viejo, mijo. Ojála qué si.

I see the truck. I recognize the wiry body, the scruffy beard. The Chaneque stops and I walk to him. He grabs my hand and walks opens the truck door. The Chaneque sits in the middle and he grabs the Eugene man's hand. He holds onto my hand. Conoce Veracruz? No. Este ya es mi país.