Chapter Text
I had long since learned to keep track of time without a watch, just by the sound of the cicadas when summer refused to end, by the way the wind swept through the courtyard as evening fell, or by the crowing of the roosters as night slowly gave way to day in the countryside. I had discovered, many years ago, that life was more pleasant when I stopped chasing the hours.
That early morning was one of those nights that seemed suspended between sleep and wakefulness, a perfect time to work: my computer screen barely illuminated my office while the rest of the house remained dark. The only lamp on was a very small one sitting next to a stack of open books, pages marked up in red ink, and two cups of coffee that I’d forgotten to take to the sink. One cup was empty; the other was still warm.
I always ended up making coffee for two. Even when he was away. It was a silly habit I never broke. My husband had been gone for almost two weeks. Another one of his business trips, the kind he’d mention with a calm smile as he carefully packed his bags. He never gave too many details. “Fewer worries for you,” he’d reply when I tried to pry.
We lived in a small ranch house in northern Mexico, far from the noise of the cities, where cell service was available only when the weather permitted and where getting internet was a battle against the wind and the antennas. We had bought that property just a few years after we got married. I insisted. I needed a place where no one would bother me, where tranquility would wash over me. I fell in love with the property, and he didn’t object.
The house was modest: white walls slightly weathered by the sun, a wooden porch that wrapped around part of the facade, an office and a few bedrooms, a small living room with an old but comfortable armchair, and a spacious kitchen from whose window you could see the open countryside stretch out until it faded into the horizon. There were no neighbors nearby—just kilometers of open land, scattered trees, a wooden fence, and a road where I rarely saw a car pass by. It was exactly the kind of place where a writer could lose herself for days. My novels and essays were born there, amid the scent of freshly brewed coffee, the sound of the wind rattling the windows, and the constant chirping of crickets. I liked to think that stories had a memory, that they absorbed the place where they were written. That’s why I’d never wanted to return to the city; that house wasn’t big, but it was a home.
The draft of my next novel lay on my desk. Hundreds of sheets marked with sticky notes of different colors jutted out between the chapters, while my black notebook lay open next to the keyboard. I would write first, then edit, then rewrite. I was a translator as well as a novelist and essayist. I never learned to separate the two worlds; translating meant listening to someone else’s voice, while writing meant enduring my own.
I glanced at the bottom corner of the screen. 3:16 a.m.
“Another lost night…” I murmured to myself.
I saved the document on autopilot and stood up, slowly stretching my back. I’d been sitting for hours, and my joints creaked softly. I picked up the still-warm cup and walked barefoot toward the kitchen, appreciating the cool sensation of the floor as I opened the sink window.
The air flowed in slowly, carrying the damp scent of the earth, freshly cooled by the night. I took a deep breath. There was something almost unreal about that tranquility; the silence of the countryside was never true silence, there was always something there. The insects, the distant rustling of the trees, the wind. Little sounds that one learned to distinguish over the years. That’s why it was so easy to notice when a sound appeared that didn’t belong there.
An engine. Far away.
I frowned slightly. It wasn’t unusual to hear pickup trucks during the day, it happened sometimes. But at that hour…
I peeked just a little out the window. Nothing, just darkness. Probably someone lost out in the countryside; I didn’t think much of it.
I refilled the coffee pot to get ready for the next few hours of work. While I waited, I absentmindedly flipped through a book I’d left lying on the table. I wasn’t even reading, I was just letting my eyes scan the lines as I mentally went over my daily routine, all alone. I thought about my husband, as I always did when the house was too quiet.
I imagined that, wherever he was, he was probably still awake. It was curious to think that despite his constant travels, he never seemed to come home tired. He never talked much about his work, but he always came back looking impeccable, as if time couldn’t touch him.
Not a single wrinkle in his clothes, no dark circles under his eyes, no extraordinary stories.
Just gifts, old books, hard-to-find editions. Once he showed up with a first Russian edition of Bulgakov that I still treasure to this day. I never asked how he got it; he never explained.
There was always a certain elegance to the way he hid things. Because he didn’t lie outright; he remained calm with such perfect naturalness that it gave no cause for suspicion.
The coffee maker began to emit a soft whistle announcing that the coffee was ready, just as I heard the dogs barking. These weren’t just any barks, they were barks of warning.
I immediately turned toward the window.
“What’s going on?” The barking grew louder. I could hear them running, then… absolute silence. A chill ran down my spine.
I looked outside again. Darkness. The porch light was still illuminating just a few meters from the entrance, nothing more. But then a very faint light appeared, moving among the trees, then another, and then another.
My first thought was ridiculously mundane.
“Did someone get lost in the woods?”
Then I thought they might be thieves, then soldiers. But nothing quite added up.
I took a slow step toward the front door, crouching down to try to go unnoticed. I didn’t know if those people had seen me.
That’s when I heard a voice nearby, deep and calm, speaking in English.
“Stack up.”
Another voice replied, a little more muffled.
“Copy. Left side secure.”
My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t understand what was happening, but this wasn’t just any conversation. Instinctively, I stepped back. My heart began pounding with unbearable force, until I decided to check my phone: there was no signal. The lights were still on, the coffee pot was still steaming. Everything was the same, but something was settling in my chest. The peace inside the house had just disappeared.
Outside, hidden in the darkness of the ranch, four figures moved in complete silence toward the house. They were neither thieves or Mexican soldiers, but neither were they lost men. They moved in sync.
One covered the left flank.
Another kept watch on the windows.
A third kept watch on the perimeter.
And the man leading the group, wearing a worn cap and sporting a beard barely illuminated by the moon, slowly raised a clenched fist.
They all stopped at the same time. It was all too quiet for this to go well.