"Everything ok, my friend?" this person asked me.
"Yeah, everything's ok," I lied. It had likely been less than an hour since daybreak, yet the heat was unbearable. I was sweating all over. My head ached so badly I began to feel dizzy, and my thirst grew so intense that I forgot about the drowsiness that had been plaguing me. The Devil's train cars were made of sheet metal, so I was careful not to burn myself when I touched them.
"It looks easy to just sit here, but it's a real pain in the ass. By the way, they call me Flirty—because I'm always winking at you." He said this with a smile, and since his injured eye was always kept shut, it really did look like he was winking all the time. I couldn't help but smile a little. "Oh, look: you do smile. I was starting to think you didn't, and you're so young, too. Do you have kids? Man, just wait until you do." He laughed and then went on to tell me about his daughters. At that moment, I was certain he would ask my name, and I'd have to lie to avoid the risk of being recognized. Fortunately, he didn't—perhaps because he genuinely enjoyed talking about his daughters, or perhaps because he couldn't have cared less about what my name was. Anyway, I let that slide and simply listened. He told me trivial stories, like the time Cindy, the oldest, drew all over his white shirts because they "looked like sheets of paper" and "they looked prettier that way."
The train began to slow down. Flirty stood up. I remained seated and just watched him.
"You have money?"
I shook my head.
"The station is up ahead," he said, pointing toward the horizon, where a few buildings were barely visible. "There are always cops there. If you pay them, they let you stay on the train, but if you don't, they arrest you and take you who knows where."
I stood up.
"And where can I get on the Devil again?" I asked him.
"We have to take a long way around, my friend," Flirty replied, "because the cops patrol the whole area." He then climbed down from the car and jumped to the ground. I hesitated for a moment but decided to follow him rather than lose sight of him. I jumped as far as I could to make sure I didn't land near the car's wheels.
We were in the middle of nowhere: there was nothing but undergrowth, a few scattered trees, and the train tracks. You couldn't even see the road. Some migrants headed in a specific direction, and several of us followed them. At first, I suspected they didn't actually know where to go and were simply walking aimlessly—or perhaps leading us into a trap where we'd soon find ourselves surrounded by officers or criminals—but I concluded that following them was the best option I had at the moment—Flirty was following them too.
Hours passed, and the surroundings remained unchanged. I became increasingly convinced that staying together only made us easier to find in such a desolate landscape, yet I remained with the group, ready to distance myself should I sense any auras approaching.
But that didn't happen. After several hours, we arrived at a small town where the roads were made of dirt and the people were so accustomed to migrant caravans that they didn't even look at us.
"It's as if we were ghosts," Flirty said, right after someone walked past us. "Or maybe we are. I'm even starting to disappear myself." He raised his missing arm and laughed.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Laugh, my friend. We're in the easy part of the journey," he said.
"Yeah, but, where are we?"
"Oh, in Saint Lost," he answered.
"And where's that?" I have never heard that name.
"Come, my friend," I don't know if he ignored my question or simply didn't know the answer. "There's a shelter over this way," he told me, and kept walking. The remaining migrants gradually split up into smaller groups. I was certain that at any moment we would see officers approaching—since they were looking for us, they would surely know to find us here—but that never happened. I suspect Saint Lost was far enough from the station that the police didn't bother going there, or perhaps they caught enough migrants in their patrol area that they had no need to venture any further out.
Anyway, we kept walking, with hunger, thirst, and fatigue following my every step. I tried to distract myself with the stories Flirty kept telling me or by looking at the streets we passed through. Most of the houses were small, with old, worn-out paint. Billboards and advertisements were so sun-bleached they were barely legible. There were several restaurants grilling chicken or meat, even though they had no customers. The smell was nauseating—at least to me.
Several years ago, my team and I received a report of a car on fire in the middle of the road. Brainard teleported us there immediately. We arrived well before the firefighters, though there was no longer any fire to put out. All that remained were the charred wreckage of a car and a man who was still sitting upright in the driver's seat. It smelled of plastic and—yes—burnt flesh, but there was something else, too: a faint scent of almonds, perhaps. It is hard to describe.
That wasn't the only time on which I encountered a body in that state and, consequently, that stench.
Because of it, I can't stand the smell of meat, and I haven't eaten it in recent years.
Regarding that case, though, the autopsy revealed no signs of torture; his relatives had become estranged from him years earlier, so they did not know whether he had joined a gang or was having trouble with one; the car provided no indication of an accident that might have caused the fire.
In the end, we never found out why he died that way.
"Take it easy, my friend. We'll eat something in a bit," Flirty said to me. I was kneeling, head bowed and both hands on the ground; there was a puddle of vomit right in front of my eyes
"Sorry." I stood up as if nothing had happened. "Is there much left?"
"We're almost there," Flirty said, and he wasn't lying: a little further ahead stood a small, old building that looked more like a school. Painted above the door were the words "Saint Lost Migrant Shelter." We approached, and I soon realized there were several missing-person posters on the façade. I looked at each of those faces, but I didn't remember having seen any of them.
The place was crowded, yet a volunteer greeted us immediately.
"Come on in. Have you been here before, or should I tell you where everything is?" he asked us.
"I've been here before," Flirty answered. "Come, my friend. Let's eat."
I followed him through a couple of rooms, and we stopped at the end of a line. For a moment, I feared being recognized, but I immediately realized that no one was paying any attention to me. Besides, my hunger, thirst, and exhaustion were so intense that I was willing to take the risk for a bit of food.
Around me were men, women, elderly, and children; some of them carried signs and laminated photographs tied around their necks. They would approach others and ask them the same questions:
"Have you seen my kid?"
Or:
"Do you know where's my husband?"
"I'm sorry," Flirty would say whenever one of them approached us, and they would simply nod with their usual resignation.
I observed each of the photographs and tried to recall if I had seen any of those people, but it was almost impossible to tell: that morning, I had traveled alongside dozens—perhaps even a hundred—people, and I couldn't remember a single one of their faces. Perhaps one of the missing people had been there, but how could I possibly single them out and remember them from among so many people I would likely never see again?
Before each of these people left, I would study the photographs closely, hoping to remember those faces.
"Sorry. But if I happen to see them, I'll let you know," I told each of them.
"Thank you, my son," they would reply with a vague smile, then walk away to continue their search.
We soon made our way to the kitchen, where two volunteers handed each of us a bag containing a bottle of water, a package of tortillas, and another one of refried beans. One of the men was missing a leg. I wondered if he had fallen off the Devil while traveling, or if a criminal gang or the police had caught and tortured him.
Obviously I didn't ask him anything about it.
"Thank you," I said as I took my bag.
"No problem, buddy, but let the line move, please," he replied, and he was right: there were still too many people waiting.
I stepped aside and looked at my two functional legs. That volunteer had, despite his condition, probably helped more people than I had in all my years as a Hero.
Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of someone throwing a punch at me out of the corner of my eye, so I immediately put up my guard and prepared to grab that arm and deflect it.
But I didn't grab anything, since the only thing that ended up stretched out before me was a stump.
I looked at my attacker, and it was Flirty, who had pretended to strike me with his missing arm. He laughed.
"You're distracted, my friend," he told me, and some of the people there laughed too. "Come."
I followed him through several corridors until we reached a fairly large room with dozens of bunk beds. Almost all of them were occupied, but we found two empty ones side by side and lay down on them. Most of the people around us were sleeping or chatting with one another. We opened our bags and ate. Although the meals were quite simple, few things in life have I enjoyed as much as eating them, likely due to the fact I was starving at that moment—they say hunger is the best seasoning there is.
As soon as I took a bite, my hunger and thirst intensified sharply—as if my body were demanding that I devour everything in the bag, go back to the kitchen, and get in line all over again. But I managed to resist the urge and even saved some food for later. Besides, I feared that eating and drinking to satiety after having gone without food for practically a whole day would be too much for my stomach, causing me to throw it all up shortly after.
I didn't manage to fully satisfy my hunger and thirst, but at least they subsided significantly. My drowsiness, on the other hand, intensified sharply. I was already struggling to keep my eyes open—especially since I was lying on a bed—and the idea of falling asleep in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers, held absolutely no appeal for me.
Although staying put and resting my legs for a moment wasn't a bad idea—especially after walking all day. I noticed the sunset through the windows of that room.
I turned towards Flirty to ask him for directions on where to go next, but he was looking at a rather worn photograph of his family.
"Do you think they'll remember me—that they'll actually recognize me when they see me?" he asked me sadly. "I won't be coming back to them in one piece."
He snuggled into his bed and tried to sleep.
I didn't bother him.
At that moment, I heard a scream just like the one I had heard while traveling on the Devil. It was a barely perceptible scream, and considering I couldn't hear the train anywhere, it must have been my imagination.
"Five minutes," I told myself. "In five minutes, I'll get up, ask the volunteers for directions and leave."
So I lay back, face up and with my eyes wide open.
I don't know at what point I fell asleep.