The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant

Zapoteco, but his great-grandfather was half Spanish, un hacendado with a lot of land to the east of el centro. Now his family grows agave there for the mezcal and makes it also. For people like my father, Don Serafín can do many things—find work, loan money, grant favors, offer advice. In return my father gives him loyalty and must do whatever he asks.
    â€œIf you’re going to call your father,” said César, “I guess you’ll want to borrow my phone”—he smiled a little bit—“along with my books and money and food?”
    â€œI have my own phone,” I said.
    He laughed then, and it was the first time I heard him do that since we were in school. “Just don’t mention my name.”
    When my father answered he was mixing cement. At first he was irritated, and when I told him I was ready to go to el Norte he was surprised. I told him as much of the truth as I could—that I have a small problem with the police, but I swear on the Virgin it wasn’t my fault and this is why I cannot come home to say goodbye. I think he knew I was not saying everything, but he has done this himself and he did not press me. You must understand, to go north is my father’s dream since I was young, and more than anything he wants to believe it will come true, not only for me but for him.
    César found a patio with some shade near the bus stop and we waited there with a beer for my father to call back. César never once took out his phone, but when mine played “Back in Black” in the middle of the afternoon he jumped. “Bueno,” my father said. “I have consulted Don Serafín and he has agreed to help us. But you must understand, this is a special favor he is doing, loaning us so much money. You must promise me you will pay it back as quickly as you can, and you cannot forget the interest. It will be bad for me—for the family—if he must come looking for it.”
    â€œI promise, Papá, as soon as I find work. Tío will help me.”
    My father was nervous and I could hear it. “He let me sit in his car, Tito. It’s the first time in all these years.”
    I have seen Don Serafín’s cars before in el centro. His new one is the BMW 760. In all of Oaxaca there are only two or three like this. For someone like my father it is an honor to sit in such a car, but it is also a burden. The problem with the favor is that there will always come the day when you must repay it. You cannot know when or for what you will be asked, but when it comes from a heavy chingón like Don Serafín it will hurt and you can never say no. I was afraid for my father then and I didn’t know what to say so I asked him what it was like.
    â€œIf Pancho Villa was alive today,” he said, “his car would be like this one. Every seat is a throne. And when he called his man Lupo? The car turned into a telephone!”
    After this, Papá told me where to go and how to find this Lupo. I thanked him, but it wasn’t enough.
    â€œI hope you will come back,” he said, “but not until there is a reason for hope. L.A. is best for you, I think. I’ll tell Tío you’re coming. Your mother will be worried so call when you can. Suerte. Vaya con Dios.”

8
    Thu Apr 5—23:14
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    Time, you know. Minutes. When my abuelo was young he didn’t know what a minute was because in Zapotec there aren’t any minutes, only days and seasons and harvests. I’m not sure I know what minutes are myself now. But I know they matter, especially when you’re trying to count how many you have left. And this I do not know. There are many of us, AnniMac, but there was never a plan for something like this so everyone is just reacting to themselves, giving up or holding on to some private hope the way they hold on to their crucifixes or water bottles or cell phones.
    With no water we can go maybe two more days in here if we stay