Burn by Bill Ransom Page A

will speak with the pharmacist, Juan-Carlos. I will bring one of the blue bottles. If they have no value, we can sell the containers for people to keep cold things cold.”
    “Ice cream cold,” Ricardo said.
    “Yes,” Manuelito said, “ice cream cold. So, we fill the cart here with the bottles. Perhaps Mama can sell them while we come back . . . Roberto, no!”
    Roberto had another canister open, and he pulled out the nesting-basket for the little bottles. He lifted them to the light and then cried out and dropped them. He shook his hand in pain and looked to Lupita for relief.
    “Caliente” he said, around the fingers in his mouth. Then he offered them for her to see.
    “Not hot,” she said. “Cold. Very cold. Now, see. You have broken some of the medicinas. Some sick people won’t get well now. Leave the rest alone, just bring them to the cart. We’re not going to open them anymore.”
    Ricardo was squatted down beside the blue rivulet that ran into one of their wheel-ruts. He poked at it with a finger.
    “No, Ricardo!” Manuelito said. “Leave it, it’s broken. Let’s fill up the cart and go home. Then I will get you an ice cream.”
    “Ice cream!” Ricardo said, and his face brightened. “Ice cream!”
    Ricardo sucked the blue drop from his fingertip and turned back to the mud with his brother to look for more.
    By the time the cart was full, Manuelito Kax was feeling lightheaded and queasy. He blamed it on his eagerness to get up so early and go to the flood. He’d only eaten two tortillas and a handful of beans, which usually got him through the day. But today he had worked harder than usual, wrestling his cart over debris and through the red muck that the valley floor had become. Mosquitoes and the botflies had swarmed him since daybreak. And his head hurt.
    His cousin, Luis Ochoa, spotted him as they approached the village and came running to see what he’d found.
    “Hey, skinny one, did you see many deads?”
    “No,” Manuelito shook his head, and lost his balance. He grabbed the traces of his harness to steady himself. “No, Luis, just parts of the deads. And don’t call me ‘skinny one.’ You know my name.”
    Luis helped him pull the cart the rest of the way to his house.
    “You have many fine steel jars back there, cousin. You know, the soldiers turned everybody else back. Once again, you’re the only one to come home with something.”
    “I have another Sentry,” Manuelito gasped. “And a few bottles. Soldiers . . . they chased me back to the road.”
    “Oh, yes, they’re everywhere up there. They wear the space clothing and listen to no one. A Sentry, and these jars—truly a rich day for you, cousin.”
    Luis stopped his chatter a moment and looked around.
    “Where is Lupita?” he asked. “And the deficientes?”
    Manuelito waved a hand to indicate the track he’d just followed.
    “Back there,” he said. “The brothers have to look at everything, and she teaches them.”
    “She should help you with the cart.”
    “She cares for the brothers; it is much more work than this cart, my cousin. There, you see? They’re coming now. I feel unwell. I want to unload the cart and lie down.”
    “What was it like up there? Besides the soldiers. Did you see other gleaners?”
    Manuelito shook his head as he unfastened his harness.
    “No one,” he said.
    He stood still for a moment, drenched in sweat, feeling the relief of the weight. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and smelled the dozen charcoal fires of his neighbors cooking corn tortillas. From each house came the pat-pat-pat of tortillas being formed between a woman’s palms. He heard the clink of steel as Luis examined the jars.
    “Lupita!”
    The shout was in his mother’s voice, and Manuelito had barely the strength to turn and see that Lupita had fallen in the path, and the brothers were trying to help her up.
    The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, looking up at the shimmering leaves of the