Illustrations by Michelle Garcia
Carlito held one end of the rope, Omar the other. The three of us wore orange vests to seem official. Sebastián, our lookout, hid behind some bushes.
“¡Here comes one!” I picked up my shovel and dug out some of the dirt we’d dumped in one of the potholes covering the road. Omar held up a gloved hand, signaling for the car to slow down and stop. Things had gotten more difficult for us recently, with the news warning of false checkpoints, where men dressed in military or police uniforms stopped vehicles under the pretense of government-sanctioned searches, forced all the passengers out of the car, and then drove off to have the car scrapped or sold. There was talk of rapes and beatings when the passengers failed to comply, and sometimes those things did happen. But we weren’t like that—we wouldn’t have known what to do with a car if we had managed to steal one.
We wanted drivers who were willing to spend money to get dirt off their car but not smart enough to keep us from looking inside. A car with fully tinted windows meant someone who might have more money on him, but we risked bullets getting lodged in our throats. Non-tinted meant less money, but also that we’d be alive to spend it. The best was a clean car with a fishbowl windshield—someone who had money but was stupid.
Sebastián had just flagged a silver Toyota with a cracked mirror. The car wasn’t only dirty, but had tints. The worst combination: a driver who was broke and dangerous. We’d warned Sebastián about this before, but he was still a kid, barely 13. He’d be shaking with nerves and excitement, holding the tip of his dick through his pants to keep from pissing himself, and the moment he saw a car, he’d call out to us, not bothering to notice what shape it was in.
When the car came into full view over the hill, we all got into position. I stood in the middle of the road, leaning against the shovel and wiping my forehead. Omar and Carlito held the rope with little orange flags hanging from it. When the car stopped, I approached and motioned for the driver to roll down his window—barely visible through the darkness of the glass, the driver, who was wearing sunglasses, raised his hand, asking what the issue was without speaking.
I pointed at the road, the potholes, my shovel. “Construction,” I said, not sure he could hear me.
The man shook his head no, then tried to pull forward, but I stepped in front of the car.
“You can’t go through until we’re done,” I said.
The man honked his horn. He motioned for us to move, and when we didn’t, he honked again. Then again, each honk seeming longer and louder than the one before.
I looked over at Omar. He nodded and let the rope slacken to the ground. We didn’t want to draw unwanted attention. We’d made that mistake once and almost gone to jail because we kept trying to get the driver to roll down his window while he leaned on his horn. A police car had been not half a kilometer down the road from that spot, and we’d had to take off running into the jungle, leaving behind our rope and vests. We hadn’t tried stopping cars there since. But that didn’t bother us much; we moved up or down the highway when we felt a location was getting too hot. This spot was different because we’d been there for more than a week. The main draws were the uphill advantage on one side, and the two-kilometer visibility on the other.
With the rope dropped, the man behind the wheel let up on the clutch and sped down the road. We watched his taillights fade.
“¡Sebastián!” Omar yelled at him. “You stupid son of a—”
“¡Here comes another one!” Sebastián yelled back.
Carlito rolled his eyes.
“¿Does this one look nice?” I called out.
“I think it’s a Mercedes,” Sebastián said.
Omar, Carlito, and I exchanged glances. Yeah, Sebastián was an idiot, but we had hammered home what fancy cars looked like, using the auto magazines we’d stolen from the supermarket back in the capital as guides. He’d once let two cars get by us while we hid in the brush, thinking them not worth our while, but Sebastián was good at alerting us to cops.
We got into our positions and waited for the car’s logo to crest the hill. Sure enough, a black Mercedes. I wiped my forehead again, sweaty from the anticipation. Omar held up his hand and kept the rope taut with the other. I was already picturing what we would do with the money—ice cream, dinner at a restaurant, a hotel room in a nearby town. We were all in desperate need of a shower, a night when we weren’t eaten alive by mosquitoes or whatever creatures crawled around the jungle floor in the dark.
We heard the purr of the engine and watched as the car got closer. By the time we realized that the car was speeding up, not slowing down, it was too late for Carlito and Omar to let go of the rope. I almost couldn’t jump out of the way.
“¡Fuck!” Omar yelled as the rope tore out of his palm and got caught in the wheels of the car. “Motherfucker.” Holding his hand, he watched the rope get dragged off by the Mercedes.
I eyed the car and saw the rope tumble free from underneath the tires. “¿You okay?” I asked Carlito, who was holding his left hand, rope-burned. He nodded and looked over at Sebastián, who was running down from his hiding spot.
“Holy shit, holy shit,” Sebastián said.
When he reached us, Omar smacked him on the back of the head with his good hand. “I’ve told you about saying those words,” he said. “Go get me some water.”
Sebastián looked defiant for a moment before laying eyes on Omar’s hand. He ran into the brush for one of the gallons of water we kept next to the tents we’d made from tarps and branches.
Carlito crossed the two-lane highway and sat down next to us. “¿How much money do you think he had in his wallet?” he said.
“Let’s not think about that,” Omar said. “It’ll make it hurt worse.”
Sebastián ran back with the jug and gave it to Omar. He uncapped the gallon with his teeth and dumped some of the water on his and Carlito’s hands, then took a swig from it.
“¿Does it hurt?” Sebastián asked.
“It doesn’t feel good.” Omar slid out of his vest and took off his shirt, wrapping his hand in it. He instructed Carlito to do the same, tucking the end of a sleeve into the folds to keep the bandage in place.
“¿Now what?” I asked.
Omar looked at me like I’d spoken in tongues. “We still got about four hours of sunlight,” he said, as though blood wasn’t soaking into his shirt.
I couldn’t believe it. “You and Carlito can’t hold the rope,” I said.
“I got two hands, ¿don’t I?” he said.
I knew that letting the Mercedes get away would bother him unless we made enough for a hotel room that night.
Omar took another sip of water, then held it out to the rest of us. We all shook our heads no. Omar shrugged and swigged from the jug, letting water run down his chin and onto his neck, down his flat stomach. He was mostly skin and bones like the rest of us, but his muscles were more defined. While Sebastián and Carlito mostly got tired, Omar and I gained muscle from chopping wood or walking from town to town when we couldn’t get a bus or van to pick us up. Omar was 20, born three years before me, and just over four years before Carlito. Sebastián had been a surprise.
“All right,” Omar said. He capped the jug of water and shoved it into Sebastián’s chest. “Go get us some clean shirts,” he said. “One for Jaramillo too.”
I looked at my shirt. Dirt all down the front of it, a tear near the navel, from when I’d landed on a rock jumping out of the way of the Mercedes.
Sebastián walked, rather than ran, back into the jungle and then came out with three shirts. I put mine on and tossed the dirty one on the road as a car drove by, heading down the hill.
“We’re already losing money,” Omar said, signaling for us to get into position. He leaned forward and grabbed his end of the rope and stared off into the jungle, waiting for us, like a statue, a saint. The patron saint of highway robbers.
The rest of the day was successful. We managed to stop a few cars, avoiding the vans and buses. Too many people meant that we could be overpowered and held down until the cops showed up. We’d toyed with the idea of fake guns, but usually unsheathing machetes was enough to get drivers to comply. Plus, the driver might pull a real gun on us.
“I think we have enough,” Carlito said, counting out money for a room.
“Not if we want to eat,” Omar said. He motioned for Carlito to get back to his side of the road.
“¡A blue Kia!” Sebastián called down from his hiding spot.
Omar nodded. “Last one.” He waited for us to get into position before lifting the rope.
When the car appeared at the top of the hill, I made my way over to the driver’s side and told the man to roll down the window. He did so without hesitation.
“¿Yes?” he said.
Omar and Carlito grabbed their machetes while I reached in to unlock and open the door.
“All we want is your wallet,” I said. I noticed movement in the back seat. Someone who had been lying down sat up with a jerk. I jumped back, expecting a setup, before hearing my name.
“¿Jaramillo?” The voice was familiar, but I didn’t know why. The rear door swung open, and out stepped Leslie. “¿What are you doing?” she asked.
Leslie used to live in the same village as us. She was the same age as me, worked at my father’s bakery just like I did, before one of the maras took over the village. The gang members had come without warning, without plans of negotiating, with violence. Anyone who opposed them was never heard of again. The mareros were all business, all gold teeth and tattoos—the last thing our parents ever saw. The same thing had happened to Leslie’s mom.
I looked at the driver. Mr. Cortez, Leslie’s dad.
“We,” I started, “we were checking if you needed directions.”
Leslie looked at Carlito’s and Omar’s machetes.
Sebastián came puffing down the hill in a cloud of dust. “Check the trunk,” he said.
“Ah,” Leslie nodded.
“We just wanted something to eat,” I said.
She looked at Mr. Cortez, still behind the wheel. “We have some snacks,” she said.
“We can get our own,” I said.
“¿What kind of snacks?” Sebastián said.
“¿Are y’all heading to Peacheque?” Carlito asked.
“¿Do you guys want a ride?” Leslie asked.
I looked over at Omar, told Carlito no. We had to stop at least one more car.
“The town’s near the lake, ¿right? ¿Why don’t we meet there later?” she said.
“Nah, we’re good,” Omar said.
Leslie nodded, told us to come find her if we wanted. She gave me a sad smile and got back in the car. We watched her disappear. The mosquitoes were out, and it was getting dark. That was the worst part about the highlands. That and the humidity. I missed the lowlands on hot days like this, when you stepped out of the shower and immediately began sweating. I missed the desert; the wind, unobstructed by leaves, that hit your face. I missed home.
Omar kicked some rocks onto the highway.
“There’ll be another car soon,” Carlito said.
“Yeah, then we gotta come back out here tomorrow and do the same thing all over again.” Omar picked up some rocks and launched them into the jungle.
I reminded Omar that it had been hard since before we’d been forced from our homes.
“Seems like Leslie’s doing fine,” Omar said.
“It’s not her fault.” I looked at the ground.
“Yeah,” Omar said. “If only our dad had been a coward too.”
None of us knew what to say. It wasn’t fair to think like this, but sometimes it was all we could do. When the mareros came in, they offered each family 100 quetzales—enough for a family meal at Pollo Campero—to leave immediately. To grab their belongings and never come back. Those who stayed, who called the police, who wrote to the government, like our parents, didn’t last the week. Leslie’s father was among the traitors who gave up, took the money, packed his things and his daughter, and fled. His wife stayed behind, refusing to leave her home.
When the mareros came for our parents, Carlito, Omar, Sebastián, and I snuck out the window in our room. We heard gunfire in the kitchen and didn’t stop running until the sun began to shine along the highway. We never stopped running, just like everyone else who made it out alive. All of us, cowards.
Omar wiped his hands on his shorts and grabbed one end of the rope, again with his good hand; the other hung by his side. The rest of us weren’t sure whether to speak. We got into place just as some headlights made their way over the hill.
In town at the hotel that night, I wondered where Leslie was. I tried to picture which room was hers.
“I’m gonna take a walk,” I said.
Omar let Sebastián escape a chokehold. “¿Since when?”
“I’ll be back soon.”
Omar held the door closed as I tried to leave. “We don’t need her help,” he said.
I pushed past him and the door slammed behind me.
The night was warm, same as always, and the streets were crowded. Vendors sold tacos and ice cream out of carts, souvenirs from small booths. Why anyone would want to remember this place was beyond me. Younger kids chased one another and dodged oncoming traffic. Drivers honked at them or yelled from their windows. Down one of the three streets that made up the town, the elotero could be heard ringing his bell and shouting into the night.
The lake was calm, disturbed only by the sound of small animals jumping into the water. I bent down and picked up a small stone, illuminated by a streetlamp, and skipped it across the surface. I was reaching for another when I heard my name again, spoken as though she was still surprised to see me.
“I was hoping you’d come,” Leslie said. She hugged me, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt someone’s arms around me. “I’m sorry. It’s just nice to see someone from home.”
“I know,” I said.
“¿Should we walk?”
I nodded. The water lapped at the shore. The wind carried the sounds of the vendors and children in town as though they were messages in a bottle.
“¿How long has it been?” she asked.
“Almost two years.” This was something I tried not to think about. Each day felt like the one before as we struggled to survive.
“¿Is this what y’all have been doing?”
I couldn’t tell what Leslie was thinking, but I knew she wasn’t judging me. I was sure that she and her father had struggled at first too, and that no one was willing to help. The government ignored us—the cops ignored us—telling us we should have been prepared. And for the longest time, I couldn’t understand why the mareros wanted our town. But Omar finally figured it out while looking at a map, plotting where we’d set up our next trap. Right between two big cities, our village served as a hub.
“¿What about you?” I asked.
Leslie sighed, then looked up at the moon, which was full. “We moved around a lot, like you.”
I knew what she meant. We were like turtles, carrying our houses on our backs, settling wherever we could. Leslie put her hands in her pockets and told me that she and her father had tried to go to the capital, but that the mareros had also taken over their family’s neighborhood there. She told me that they’d finally found a place outside Quetzaltenango, but that her father couldn’t get a job and had ended up selling cold drinks on the side of the highway. His foot had been run over while handing someone a drink through a car window, and after that, she said, they’d been on the move. They searched for a place to work without having to walk too much.
“I think we might stay here a few days,” she said.
“There are worse places.”
We walked quietly for several moments.
“¿How long have y’all been here?” she asked.
“A week.”
“¿And you stop cars every day?”
I nodded.
“¿How do you not get caught?”
I shrugged. “We don’t make much.”
Leslie nodded along. “¿Can I help?”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking. “I don’t think Omar would let you.”
“I could help make you more money.” She stopped walking and smiled at me. “Then I bet he’d let me.”
“No fucking way,” Omar said. We were standing by the side of the highway again, the sun just starting to rise, when he noticed Leslie walking up the road. I hadn’t told him the night before because I knew he would say no. But I figured if she showed up while we were already here, he’d at least have to listen.
“It’s a good idea,” I said.
“We barely make enough without having to split it with someone else.” He looked toward Leslie, who was close enough to hear us now. “We don’t need anybody else,” he said.
“Good morning to you too,” she said.
“Get her out of here,” Omar said to me.
“¿Jaramillo told you my plan?” Leslie asked.
“¿To give you all our money? Yeah, he told me.”
“Think about how many more cars would stop,” I said.
“I only want a fifth, same as you,” she said.
“¡Carlito!” Omar shouted. “Grab the rope.”
Carlito crossed two lanes to the other side, afraid of upsetting Omar any further. I scooted closer to Omar, away from Leslie, and whispered to him. “Just one car.”
Omar held his end of the rope. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Fine,” he said.
I smiled and patted him on the back. Leslie was already pulling a small knife from her purse. She made a few rips in her ankle-length skirt, then grabbed two fistfuls of dirt and covered her shirt, her arms, and her hair with it. She spread out her arms like, ¿What do you think? Omar rolled his eyes, but I gave her two thumbs up.
Leslie inched toward the road and lay down. Omar shrugged his shoulders, mumbling under his breath, and stood by her head. Carlito crossed back over to us and followed Omar’s lead. I knelt by her feet as Sebastián ran up to his hiding spot.
A few minutes later we heard a car engine.
“A Ford,” Sebastián shouted down to us.
We took our positions, trying our best to look worried. As the car summited the hill, I waved my hands to flag it down. Carlito and Omar pretended to check Leslie’s pulse before cradling her head. As the driver noticed Leslie’s body, the car slowed. Then its window lowered.
“We need some help,” I said, sounding panicked.
“¿What happened?” The driver pulled over and put the car in park.
“She was crossing the road,” I said. “She got hit.”
The man unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door. He walked over to Leslie, Omar, and Carlito. As soon as he reached them, Leslie sat up with her little knife and told him to empty his pockets.
“¿What is this?” The man put his hands in the air. Omar made quick work of checking his pockets, emptying his wallet. Carlito ran over to help me search the car. We found snacks, unopened water bottles, and some clean clothes to hawk or grow into. A new tire we could sell to a mechanic in town.
We unloaded everything and told him to leave.
“Not a word about this,” Omar said—the same thing he said every time. How seriously drivers took him, I could never tell. “Or we’ll find you and take more than just your shit.”
The man walked indignantly to his car. He slammed the door shut. Dust and pebbles sprayed as he sped down the road.
“The very first car,” I said, when he was finally out of sight.
“Probably luck,” Omar said, counting the money in his hands.
I could tell he was happy about it. When he caught us watching him, he hid his smirk. He pocketed the bills and told us all to get back to our places. “¿You think we made enough to retire or something?”
Leslie and I exchanged smiles. Then she lay back down on the hot road.
By the end of that first day, after we’d sold the tire, along with the expensive cameras and phones we’d found in a car full of tourists that we dared to stop, we’d made more than we had in the past several months combined.
“Don’t get too happy,” Omar said. “She’s leaving soon.” He counted out some bills and gave Leslie her share as we stood outside the hotel. The sun set to the sound of beer bottles opening.
“This is more than my dad would make at work.” She fanned the bills and brought them to her nose. “Maybe I can convince him to stay longer.”
“No need. We’re moving too,” Omar said. “Spot’s too hot now anyway.”
I followed him as he walked inside. “We should do it again tomorrow. We should use her while she’s here.”
“Just because it worked once doesn’t mean it’ll work again.” Omar turned to Leslie. “¿What would your dad think about what you’re doing?”
Leslie shrugged. “Not sure he’d care,” she said, folding the money into her pocket.
“One day doesn’t make you a highway robber,” Omar said. “So stop trying to act like one.”
“One more day,” I said. “We can’t make this kind of money without her.”
“¿Why not? We can get Sebastián to play dead, and it’s the same thing.”
“¿You really think cars would stop for a bunch of guys standing on the side of the highway?” Leslie said.
“¡Enough!” Omar yelled.
“One more day,” I said, following Omar to our room and signaling for Leslie to come too.
He threw our empty pizza box from the night before against the wall. “We had a good day. Let’s not fuck it up by talking stupid.” Sitting on the bed, he began removing his shoes.
I was scared to say anything. Omar’s temper had gotten worse since we’d left home. One good thing about it was that no one had ever picked on me at school. Not after Omar put a kid’s head through the cafeteria wall. I had never asked for his help, and I was scared to thank him for it.
“¿What if I moved with y’all?” Leslie said.
Omar and I turned to look at her.
“We could hit a few spots, and after I made enough to last me and my dad a few months, I would leave.”
“You don’t know anything about this life.” Omar shook his head, then was silent for a minute. “Now get the fuck out of my room,” he said. With that, he lay back in bed and covered his eyes with a pillow.
I followed Leslie out. “I’m sorry.” I closed the door carefully behind us.
“¿Why’s he being such an asshole?” she asked.
“He’s scared.” I could see the top of her head now, all the dirt she’d have to wash out.
As Leslie reached the landing, she spun around. “So then I guess this is goodbye.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
She extended a hand when I was hoping for another hug. “It’s whatever. If he doesn’t want to make money, that’s on him. Maybe I’ll see you down the road.” She patted her pocket with the cash in it, then spun back around and left me there.
Omar was waiting for me in the doorway to our room when I got back.
“¿Why’d you tell her no?” I pushed past him, noticing that he’d picked up the pizza box.
“We’re better off.” He followed me into the room.
“Look, she’s cute, I get it, but we can’t be taking on another person,” he said. “I have to look out for all of you. She’s not family, she’s not my responsibility, and I don’t trust her.”
“We all lost things back there. That makes her family.”
Omar sighed. “¿Why don’t we get something to eat? We can talk about it over a Gallo or one of those American beers.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah, you are. I’m buying.”
Omar bought a small bottle of rum on the way to the seafood place. He almost never drank, mostly because we didn’t have the extra money for alcohol, but also because we had to be up early every morning. At the restaurant, he ordered a Coke and a glass and kept adding more and more rum. By the time Sebastián and Carlito found us there, Omar was pretty drunk.
“¿What’s up, guys?” Omar said.
Carlito looked at me like, ¿What the fuck?
“¿Why are you so happy?” Sebastián said.
Omar kicked two chairs out for them.
A waiter came by. “¿Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Just water,” Carlito said.
“¡Get what you want!” Omar said.
The waiter looked at Carlito and Sebastián.
“Just a water.” Carlito sat down. “I heard we’re leaving tomorrow.”
“¿That bitch tell you that?” Omar said.
“Stop talking about her like that.” I pushed Omar.
“Yeah, she did,” Carlito said.
“He just wants to fuck her,” Omar said.
I stood up, balling my fists, ready to swing. Last time we’d gotten into a fight, it had been over a twin mattress we tried to tie on top of someone’s car. Even then, I think I knew we couldn’t drag that thing around, but I was tired of sleeping on the floor, tired of waking up with a branch or rock digging into my spine. Omar had given me a black eye and a busted lip; we didn’t talk for days. It had been the rainy season, and we took turns sleeping outside because we couldn’t stand being under the same tarp together.
“Fuck this,” I said, swiping a biscuit from the table. I put it in my mouth and held it between my teeth, and flipped Omar off with both hands.
As I headed for the exit, I could hear him calling after me, but I didn’t stop to listen. I walked outside and passed beggars and people on their way home from work. People sharpening their machetes and sweeping their front stoops and playing dominoes. I walked past children kicking around soccer balls and setting off small, handheld fireworks. I walked past the vendors selling fruit and ice cream, and finally made it to the hotel, where the front-desk worker nodded and waved me through.
I didn’t have a key. Maybe that’s what Omar had been saying when I left. I turned the knob to our room for good measure and the door creaked open. Inside, everything was exactly as we’d left it, except that Leslie was standing in the middle of the room. She held something in her hands. When she saw me, she startled.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “I thought it was Omar.”
I stepped inside and felt like I was the one in the wrong place. I nodded at her hand. She shoved the bills into her pocket, then looked directly in my eyes. “You’ll make this back in no time.” She stepped toward me, but I blocked the door. “I left you some,” she said. The tips of our shoes were almost touching. “You understand, ¿right?” Her lips were right below my ear. “I’m sorry.” She reached for the doorknob. The bottom of the door hit my heels and I stood there for a second before moving out of her way.
Later that night, Omar tore our belongings from the drawers and threw them onto the floor. He tossed out our clothes and the few toys from when Sebastián was younger. He snatched and pulled the tarp so hard that our machetes and water jugs fell from the dresser to the floor. We watched him shake it out like he was doing a magic trick.
“¿Where is it?” Omar said, digging through the drawers as if he’d missed something.
The next day we walked down the road, sticking out our thumbs and hoping someone would give us a ride. No one stopped. The only person who pulled over was a bus driver, but we didn’t have the fare. We dragged our feet and kicked the trash lining the highway gutters. When the sun began to set, we entered the jungle and put up our tarp. Looking up at it was almost like looking at the night sky, except without the stars.
We never made as much money in one day as we did with Leslie. Sometimes the memory of her would make me laugh. What do you call someone who robs the robbers? Omar would say “stupid,” but I don’t think so. I would say she’s a thief hoping to sit at the right hand of God. Just like us.
This short story appears in the April 2024 print edition.