Chapter Twenty-Five
Eight Years AgoMijo.
Mijo.
St. Sebastian opened his eyes, smelling and hearing Texas, and for a moment he expected to hear his abuela laughing at something on TV and the sound of splashing outside from the pool.
But no.
It was his mother, smelling like home, cradling him to her chest outside of a graveyard. It was almost dark, which in the summer meant it was late, late into the evening, and St. Sebastian struggled to sit up—pain lancing through his head and chest as he did.
“Slowly,” his mother said in Spanish. He could hear the tears in her voice, but her hold on him was firm and sure. It always had been, always, even in this hostile place.
“I need to make sure Auden is okay,” he whispered, closing his eyes again. It hurt too much to keep them open; even th
