Chapter 8: ThanksgivingAutumn in the desert meant less humidity, but the sun was just as hot. Some of the cacti about bloomed in fall, but despite little pink dots and bright blue skies, Gustavo felt like he was existing in a colorless world.
He’d been walking for days.
Walking alone.
He’d been running. Running for weeks. From feelings of shame. Now, he was running for real.
From hate.
From danger.
For his life.
Yet after all that, he ended up not far from where he’d started.
He was back at the mesa.
The desert hadn’t changed. It was no more barren, no more void, yet it never felt so desolate, even as what sounded like a million crickets took turns calling to one another from every direction as empty hours brought sunset.
“You bugs chatter like my Alfie on that very first night.”
