I sit in the old battered Chevrolet in the parking lot of the Colegio Militar, waiting for him to return. The air conditioner blows so cold it chills me, despite the sweltering heat. It's a miracle in a car this old.

I am going to enjoy sleeping in my own bed again. I am not going to enjoy sleeping alone.

I am going to miss Trego. I wonder if he'll ever tell me his real name. Probably not to a (human and American) journalist like me. He'll whisper the most seductive words in my ear, but those won't get him kidnapped and killed by some Sinaloa goons. I've only known him for three weeks, but it's true what they say about the Coyotes down here: they have the devil in them. What—other than the devil—would make them crazy enough to ferry people across one of the most heavily-patrolled borders in the world? Insanity, maybe, and money. But Trego says it's not about the money. It's about helping people.

My thoughts turn to Agata and her daughter Rosa, holed up in Trego's home in an anonymous neighborhood to the south. Their safe passage fetched enough money to pay Trego's rent for the next year. It also paid off the local policia: coyotes are suspicious enough without being border-crossers, but thankfully bribery is a viable option down here. One thing I have learned, though, in my time in Mexico, is that you pay for the Coyotes to try, not to succeed. But tell that to the poor, desperate people who need to get to their loved ones in the States, and you'll scare them off. You'll take away Trego's business. 

It's not a lie, exactly. The great majority of border-runners make it across. Trego and his colleagues wouldn't make money if their reputations weren't strong, and there are few secrets that aren't exposed in some way or another. “Omitting truth works on a case-by-case basis,” Trego told me one night as we lay in his bed, “but if you must lie to cover up a lie, they lose trust in you. Then you disappear.” 

More people have disappeared here in Juárez than I care to write about. But I must write. 

As I look up from my notebook I see a stream of people exiting the border-crossing station's elevated platform. They are day workers, families out shopping, kids fortunate enough to be enrolled in one of El Paso's private schools. Trego stands out, the only furry body amid a sea of flesh. His bright, flowing open-collared shirt doesn't hurt either. When the crowd reaches the bottom of the stairs, it diverges: left to the visitors' parking lot, right for those making their way into Juárez on foot. Trego goes straight, towards the only car in the Colegio parking lot.

My brooding mind eases up when I see him, arms full of white plastic shopping bags from Walmart. After crossing half the distance, he breaks into a grin only a coyote could achieve. He's got the devil in him, I'm sure of it. And by proxy, I've had the devil in me, too. Cunning bastard, but a sweet lover as well. I don't want to admit I've been changed by him, but I'm afraid I have. My article, however, will mention none of these extraneous details. 

Trego opens the rear door and tosses the bags in, moving with a natural grace us pelados lack. It's got to be the tail, I tell myself, but deep down I think they—the Demis, not just coyotes specifically—possess a closer connection to the earth we can't even begin to explore. When asked, more likely than not a Demi will say it's just how it is, and perhaps it's what they feel. But I don't believe they realize how lucky they are. 

I do envy Trego, not for his job but for his spirit. I have fallen for him. I should try to distance myself from that before we have to say goodbye. If he feels the same way, he doesn't show it as he flops into the driver's seat next to me, a Coke in his right paw. He throws his head back, guzzling it like water. 

“You've got to be the only person I know who won't go to the Walmarts in Juárez because he prefers corn syrup to cane sugar,” I say, reaching for the bottle. It tastes super-sweet, falsely so. I've grown used to Mexi-Coke. “Ugh, you can take it back.”

Trego laughs, a delightfully bark-like sound. “You, my friend, are addicted now. You can never return. Sugared soda is hard to find up north, eh?”

“Beyond specialty beverage stores and warehouse clubs, you don't find it,” I reply. “I don't understand how you like American Coke so much.”

“I have a sweet tooth, guerito. Sugar is fine, but there is something about your soda that satisfies a craving deep inside of me. Perhaps it tastes...like freedom...” His voice gets dreamy as he spreads his paws across the vastness of the Chevy's dashboard. More bark-laughs, and then he puts a paw on my thigh. A little thrill runs the length of my spine. 

“You're crazy,” I say, looking over at him. His smile only confirms this fact. He rubs gently, then pats me.

“Crazy like a fox!” Putting the car in gear, not bothering with a seat belt, Trego turns us around and drives away from the Colegio Militar, towards Juárez and, ultimately, home. 

By the time we arrive at the small unassuming house in the Valle Dorado neighborhood, it's late afternoon and the heat of the day has broken. It rushes into the Chevy and ruins what the A/C worked so hard to maintain. Grabbing two of the four bags, I follow Trego through a gate into a courtyard, whose walls are covered in morning glory and hibiscus. Instead of asking for my help, he sticks the bags in his teeth while he opens the rickety screen door. 

“Lucy, I'm home,” he says around the plastic, shouldering open the inner door. “Oh, that smells so good!” As I follow him, the homey aroma of tamales sets my stomach to growling. There is just something indescribable about eating freshly-cooked tamales that shares little with the roach-coach fare in the U.S. Perhaps it's the authenticity that makes them taste so much better. Perhaps it's just my head. All the same, Agata has made us dinner, and we're a couple of hungry guys. 

The groceries forgotten, Trego picks up a tamale from the steaming pot on the stove and pops it into his muzzle, gulping it back as if it were a freshly-caught mouse. “Chingame, she made carnitas!” Licking his lips, the coyote lopes into the living room where Agata and Rosa, along with a young man of about nineteen, are watching a telenovela on Trego's TV. 

"¡Volvió el cachorro!" squeals Rosa in youthful delight as she climbs over the back of the threadbare couch to hug the coyote. Cachorro is her pet name for the coyote.  “You get treats?”

“Rosa!” Agata says, horrified until she looks at Trego's face. 

“Don't worry about it,” he replies, and nods down at Rosa. “I got plenty of treats. And water, energy bars, easy stuff like that.” He repeats it in Spanish for the benefit of the little girl. She jumps up and down until Trego eases away, patting her on the head. His tail wags up a storm. Agata replaces Rosa, wrapping her arms around him, even nuzzling into his neck a bit. She has a husband up north—he is the reason for their journey—and she is a faithful woman, but I can tell Trego has spellbound her as well, in a different way. I have been close to him long enough that I know it goes no farther than that. He is nothing if not honor-bound.

“How did you know carnitas are my favorite, you lovely woman?” he asks Agata.

“I didn't.” Agata blushes, and for a moment I can imagine the woman she was perhaps twenty years ago, radiant and free of worry. Hope and levity soften her features, and I find I can't bear the thought of tonight's excursion failing. If it happens by way of the Border Patrol, it merely means deportation, and my media status exempts me from prosecution. But if it's anyone else...

“Come, Mateo, let's all sit down and have dinner together, courtesy of Agata's wonderful cooking.” The young man stands and follows us into the kitchen, where we bring the food to the table and Trego leads us in grace (and not until this moment did I realize he's a believer in the Virgin) before digging in, coyote-style. 

The observant journalist in me takes over as we eat Agata's delicious meal. Between mouthfuls of tamales, beans, and fresh fruit, with horchata to wash it all down, we share stories. Rosa, whose knowledge of English can't quite keep up with the pace of our speech, concentrates more on her food. Trego regales us with accounts of prior crossings, to which Agata pays rapt attention. She doesn't notice his right ear twitching at intervals; it's his tell for when he's manipulating the truth. It reminds me of how intimately I already know him, and the thought of being back in my own country tomorrow morning saddens me more than it should.

Agata's husband Sandalio works at a meat-packing plant in Kansas, the result of a prior successful Coyote crossing. After a year of gainful employment, he sent for his wife and daughter. He's the one who paid Trego by Western Union a week ago, when Agata and Rosa came to stay in the house while the coyote made preparations. 

Mateo is a former gang member, evidenced by numerous tattoos. After nearly losing his life in a gun battle at seventeen, he made his decision to leave while healing under his mother's doting care. She urged him to try and make it north, where he could find a good job and be rid of his violent past. Over cups of hot chocolate, Mateo admits the urge to go back to the gang is strong, but the possibility of living his own version of the American Dream is stronger. He hopes to end up in the liberal bastion of Portland, Oregon, working perhaps in the lumber industry. Anything to get a foothold. When I ask if he knows anyone in the area, he shakes his head. 

“I will cross that bridge when I come to it,” he tells me evenly. We both know he has no idea what to do beyond making it to his destination. I jot shorthand notes in my spiral-bound journal and nod my reporter's nod, infinitely glad to have been born an American. Whenever I feel like complaining about my life from now on, thinking of Mateo and Agata and little Rosa will be enough to remind me it's not as bad as I think. It never is, compared to these three. 

And Trego? “Don't you ever think about staying north, every time you see people across?” I ask, surreptitiously watching his tail act like a metronome as he washes the dinner dishes after the others have gone back to the living room to watch American Idol in SAP. 

“Oh, sure, I think about it,” he says, eyes on his work instead of me. “But I have a job to do, amigo.  I make too much money to want to go up there and stay. Too good at what I do, you know?” 

“I suppose so,” I agree, noticing his right ear twitching. What's the real reason, Trego? I wonder. I don't press him, though; he was hard enough to crack when I had to convince him I was just a reporter, not someone hired to drive him into the waiting hands—or paws—of police or drug runners.

Trego calls a meeting in the living room after the dinner things are put away. I turn on my recorder and, after assuring everyone their names will all be changed in the story, the coyote outlines the process for later on in the evening. We are all to head to bed immediately and get as much sleep as we can before waking up just past midnight. A truck will take us along the Carretera Federal 2, then through the scrub brush to within five miles of the border. Trego will take us the rest of the way on foot, to the place where New Mexico Highway 9 comes closest to the crossing point. 

There will be a car waiting to take the four of us to a motel in nearby Columbus. While the girls will stay at the motel with family, Mateo will head to the nearest Greyhound station, where he will buy a one-way ticket to Portland. I will check into my own room at the motel and call my higher-ups, who will arrange for transportation to Albuquerque, where I will fly back home and write my story and resume my normal life. 

Backpacks are laid out in front of us, prepared with foodstuffs and water, maps, flashlights. and flares (in case someone becomes hopelessly lost in the dark and must be found, no matter by whom).  Trego says we should not have an issue on a clear night like this, and we hang on his every word. Neither pointy ear twitches. Agata holds her daughter close; Rosa is the liability on this trip. She is young and easily tired, and she doesn't particularly want to walk across miles of desert.

The women retire to the spare bedroom while Mateo covers up on the couch to get what hours he can. Trego and I go down the hall to his bedroom, which he's shared with me since my second day here on assignment. We undress, and I try not to watch him too much. Even stepping out of clothes, his grace is otherworldly. He slides under the cool sheets next to me, propping up his head on his crossed arms.

“You are thinking, guerito,” he mutters after neither of us speaks right away. 

“I am.”

“I think I know what it is.”

“Are you scared?” I ask instead of giving him the answer he already knows. It's a silly question, but apt, and I genuinely want to know. 

“No.” His ear twitches anyway, and he grimaces. “Maybe a little. I always am, you know. Keeps me on my toes, keeps my senses sharp. Are you?”

“Yeah. I don't know what's out there.”

“A whole lot of trouble is out there.” Trego turns to face me, reaching out for my thigh again. “But think: tomorrow morning you'll be having stale bagels and cold gravy at the motel. Not a care in the world, except telling the readers about what you saw. Well, perhaps not everything,” he chuckles. “But what they will want to read.” The sentence has a bit of innuendo, and it makes me smile. Trego smiles back and sidles up close to me, nuzzling against my neck. This is unusually affectionate for him. I'm going to hate having to say goodbye to that. 

I bring my arm around his back and we stay that way for a while. 

“I'm scared too,” I admit. 

“Not about the crossing, I would gather,” the coyote lilts in the English of someone who has learned it as a second language. Properly spoken, not Americanized. This is the point where I feel the inevitability of it all, the weight of it on my soul, and I realize I'm trapped within my heart's own prison. Trego can smell it on me—a mixed blessing if there ever was one—and he brings his nose to my cheek, his breath warm and pleasantly cinnamon-meaty. “I will miss you too, you know. You make a good bed-warmer.” It's just about as close as he will get to admitting his feelings, but it's enough. I begin to weep softly, but he is right there to lick up my tears.

Then we're kissing, the foreignness of his muzzle on my mouth as tantalizing and arousing as it was that first night with him, when he laid me down and told me to relax, it would be all right, he would take care of me. Those were mere lines back then, but now they are truths. The tears stop because being here with him makes me want to not cry; how can I, when his tongue and fur and soft yellow eyes bring only happiness? Then happiness gives way to something more carnal, as it tends to do at night with Trego, and my hand makes its way lower. It may very well be the last time I get to share myself with him, and so I continue telling him how much I will miss him in the best way I know how.

“Oh, guerito,” he pants, “I will miss this so much.” 

##

I make contact and he gasps, calling me by my given name for the first time, hunching his full sheath against my fingers so it spreads and admits his pink tip to the air.  Seeing its familiar shape does nothing to reduce the wildness of it, the wrongness of an interspecies coupling that isn't wrong at all.  

I keep hold of him as he grinds over my stomach, my own length hard and buried in the soft fur of his rump.  My comparatively blunt head jabs up against his tail and I can feel the heat radiating from his hole.  Bliss crosses his face when I push against the tight flesh, and a surge goes through me.  This is only the second time he's wanted me in such way since I arrived.  The first time was mind-blowing, and I'm looking forward to it again.

“Can you reach the drawer?” pants the coyote, his muzzle easily able to reach my ear even as he presses down on my groin with his.  I extend my right arm, hoping to grasp the handle on the side table, but when the rest of me starts to move he pushes me back.  “Never mind, we'll make our own.”

I know what that means, and it makes me giggle, which doesn't sound natural coming from me.  Trego grins and nuzzles along the side of my face, licking away the moisture left by his snout.  Feeling for his knot, I clamp two fingers behind it and pull.

The first time was a mistake, albeit a pleasant one.  I conducted myself well for a guy who hadn't gone outside his own species for companionship.  But when you see a big bulging knot at the base of someone's cock, you want to hold it by that knot.  So I did, and I was soaked for my effort.  

Now,  I grasp it while holding my other hand over his tip.  The coyote hunches back and forth against my “tie” as I pull forward on him, watching his face contort as he easily loses the battle with his body.  He swells in my palm, trying his hardest not to slide free of my grasp, and cries out.  If anyone hears, they might mistake it for a dog in the neighborhood.  Bending him down, I catch his flow with my free hand, the excess spilling out onto my stomach.  Before I can do it myself, the coyote guides my palm down and mashes it between my legs.  It's much easier to clean flesh than fur, and a shower might wake the house.  If they're even all asleep.

I take the remainder and swirl it between my fingertips before applying it under Trego's tail, which is wagging fiercely and fanning us both.  The moment I take my hand away he grasps my shaft and lowers himself with desperate quickness.  He yields and spreads around me, a delicious envelope of heat.

Without a word—just a lot of panting and grunting—the coyote plants his paws on either side of my head and cranes his neck upward, muzzle gaping and tongue flailing out one side.  I've never seen him like this, surprising but very welcome, contrary to his usual dominant nature.  Once he bottoms out he leans into me, grasping me about the chest, gyrating softly.  He looks sweet and vulnerable all at once.

“I wish I had done this more with you,” he admits.  I kiss the side of his head and he coos.

“I think you did plenty.”  Tears prickle the sides of my eyes, but I don't let them get far enough to fall.  

“Things I want to say...but I can't allow myself to say them.”  

“Then don't.  You don't have to.”  I want to hear them, though, but I have a feeling they would only hurt us both with their honesty.  They're probably the same things I want to say to him.  But here—in this embrace, on this night—they might not be from the heart the way we mean them to be.  Passion drives the coyote more than in most humans, and I must also remember his life depends on lies.  I don't believe he'd lie to me, but reality is what it is.  Tonight, despite what we think we feel, is still physical and nothing more.  It has to be.

Trego says none of the things on his mind.  Instead he raises up on his haunches and settles back down, sending tingles the length of my spine.  This continues for a matter of minutes at a leisurely pace, building me up slowly and inevitably toward what we both crave.  When I push up to meet him, he clamps his muzzle over my lips and growls into another kiss.  Only now do I realize he's still the top, controlling the action and, consequently, when I come.  It's not very long until I feel my release approaching.

Even though I'm pinned down I can reach back and grab his cheeks and spread them, tightening his grip on my length.  Then he slams down and settles into a fast rotation of his hips.  I feel my head plunge through his second ring over and over, and I growl right back at the coyote as I finally let go in one spasming, groaning rush. Trego takes his muzzle away, exposing his neck for the bite I'm more than happy to give.  We rock that way for a few moments, enjoying the new-found slickness where our bodies meet.

As I hold his heaving hot body to mine, my mind screams out three little words I can never tell him.  Not just because they aren't true, but because such a concept is impossible between the two of us.  Our positions in life, our nationalities, maybe even our species...three words in response would be “Just wouldn't work.”  I am more of a victim to my emotions than I thought.  I quiet my id and roll over next to him, taking what solace I can in his warm, soft side.

##

Trego's cell phone alarm wakes us up at midnight, but he snoozes for another fifteen minutes in my arms before throwing the covers off and stumbling naked to the bathroom. I look after him, watching the shadow of his tail swish as he relieves himself. It's probably one of the most human things he does, as natural as it is out of place.

He comes back in, pulls open a dresser drawer and extracts a pair of plain boxer shorts. My view is spoiled a moment later, the coyote grinning because he knows I like to look. Still like a curious child, after all this time. 

“I hope you slept well,” he says. “This might be the longest night of your life.”

“Better than I normally would.” He nods, and I swear I can see his ears pink up in the dim one-lamp light. 

Trego dons a pair of jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt, then sits at the edge of the bed to tape his feet. He goes about it quietly, his expressionless face belying the worry I suspect is roiling around inside his head. Poring over every detail of the path he's traced innumerable times. I want to put my arms around him and comfort him. I want to drag him back into bed and do unspeakable things to him. I want to go home, to the safety and familiarity of Boston. 

I don't know what I want.

Ripping the tape with his teeth, Trego stands and stretches his feet and legs, bouncing a few times to break the wraps in. Then he surprises me by bending and kissing me on the forehead.

“I'm going to wake the others. The truck will be here within the hour. Dress warmly.”

When I exit the bedroom a little while later, I run into the scent of brewing coffee. I perk up like one of Pavlov's dogs at a dinner bell and wander into the kitchen to find Mateo sipping from a mug of orange juice. Lucky boy; he hasn't caught the coffee bug. I, however, am a participating victim. Trego is on the phone, speaking in hushed tones, his Spanish so quick I can't even begin to make out individual words.

Agata comes around the corner with Rosa on her arm, the little girl rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Gracias a Dios,” she exclaims when she sees the brewer.  “I wouldn't make it otherwise.”

“It seems Mateo doesn't need caffeine like the rest of us,” I say, nodding toward the teen. I'm not sure he understood what I said though. Mateo turns to Agata and the two exchange words. I pick out gringo and I know they're talking about me.

Agata says, “He wants to know what you find so interesting.” Rosa nods from behind her mother's dress as if she understood the entire conversation.

I clear my throat and struggle. “Acabo...de decir como usted bebe el zumo de naranja cuando el...resto de nosotros cafe de la necesidad.” Mateo takes a moment to process my best attempt at Spanish. I can tell he's trying not to laugh.

“Dude,” he says with little trace of an accent, “why would they send a reporter who can't speak the lingo?”

“That's what I tried to tell my editor!” I blurt out before realizing that Mateo actually spoke to me in my own language. “And...why didn't you say anything before I made a fool of myself?”

“Because I wanted to see you try,” he replies. “And you're not too bad, for an white boy.”

“Thanks?”

“De nada.”

Trego walks in with a backpack in each paw and his muzzle full of cell phone. “Truck's outside,” he mouths around it, then spits it into his palm before wiping it on his hoodie. “Everybody grab a thermos, fill it, and let's vamonos. Remember, dark clothes,” he says to Agata, who looks at her floral dress before taking Rosa back into their bedroom. She returns in jeans and a navy long-sleeved T-shirt. 

Minutes later we leave the house as a group, Trego locking the door behind him. A beat-up Ford Lobo with a camper shell and what looks like an off-road suspension idles at the curb. Juárez still pulses with life and light, the sound of traffic on the Carretera Mexico 45 perceptible even from several streets away. The coyote motions toward the pickup's bed, but pulls me back when I try to climb in. We get in the cab, Trego in the center of the bench with me up against the door. 

Not until I see a furry paw put the truck into gear do I look across Trego's lap to the chubby wolf at the wheel. His fur looks blue in the glow from the dash, and the only part of him I can see clearly is the underside of his muzzle where it disappears into a plaid flannel shirt. He glances at me with nightshine in his eyes. 

“Buenos noches,” I say politely.

“'Sup,” he replies. Trego barks a couple of times, prompting me to slug him in the shoulder. 

“Does everybody in Mexico speak English?”

“No, but you'd be surprised,” the wolf says. “I'm Ernesto. Nice to meet you.” He gets the truck rolling and changes gears instead of shaking my hand, and that's okay, because my hand soon has Trego's paw in it. Our fingers intertwine. For a brief moment, I consider asking him to come with me to the States, but then my left brain takes over and quashes the thought in a fit of logic. I squeeze his paw hard, savoring the soft fur between my fingers. He squeezes back. 

The 45 gives way to the Carretera Federal 2 and we head west, toward a secret turnoff. Nothing but silence from the truck's bed. I watch the road for a while, an endless black ribbon in an endless black night under a new moon. Trego's shoulder and fuzz-warm neck make a good pillow, and the next thing I know, we've stopped. My watch reads just before two o'clock. 

Trego nudges me out of the cab. I stand, shivering in the surprising cold, watching as the coyote lopes down an embankment and back up the other side, his shadow cast long like a funhouse reflection in the truck's headlights. He bends over the fence, then walks down about ten feet and bends again. Suddenly, the section comes down flat, in one piece. Ernesto eases the truck into the embankment and over the downed section as I follow, shooting Trego a you-clever-devil smirk as I step over the barbed wire. It goes up as soon as I'm on the other side, and we're off again.

Shortly past the fence, Ernesto turns off the truck's lights and actually speeds up. Initial panic seizes me before I actually take the time to think it through. Wolves have night vision. So do coyotes. It makes perfect sense. I don't bother to write it down because there is no way I'm going to forget it. I have no light by which to write anyway. As a human, I feel handicapped in the presence of the other two males.

It seems as if Ernesto has traveled this route many times for Trego, but on the two occasions the wolf flashes his high beams I see no trace of track in the scrub. I understand the need to alter the path each time so as not to attract the attention of the Border Patrol. They can't come into Mexico, but they patrol from the air as well as on the ground. If a chopper cop happens to see a well-worn track, Trego's operation will be compromised. 

“You okay?” Trego asks, close to my ear. I look at him and see concern on his muzzle, painted an eerie green from the dashboard.

“Just thinking,” I reply. “I thought this part of the border had the new fence, the one that's supposed to be super-secure.” 

Trego gives a chuckle that would be derisive if we were alone. “It does, my friend. But they've run out of funding. Like trying to keep water inside a...what is the word for it? Uh, colador, the thing you put noodles in to drain off the water.”

“A colander?”

“Oh, is that all it is?” I'm also surprised at the similarity.  “Like a colander, there are holes everywhere. A three-mile stretch up ahead where it's just barbed wire between parts of fence. Nobody drives off the road because their trucks can't make it. Ernesto can. It's easy to get people within walking distance.”

“And he can smell his way to the right spot?”

“I'm not as good as you think,” Ernesto pipes up, shoving the gearshift into first for a slow crawl through some nasty-looking tumbleweeds. “I have a slow transmission leak, so I leave a trail wherever I go.”

“How can you tell it's your tranny fluid and not someone else's?” I ask. 

“El Camino de la Fresa,” Trego says, the corners of his mouth drawn up farther than I thought was possible, even for a coyote. 

Ernesto nods, his eyes never leaving the road. “A few drops of strawberry flavor don't affect the gears. It leaks, and I follow it back like a beacon. There is no mistaking that scent.”

“Freaking genius,” I mutter, flabbergasted. That's another fact I won't need to write down. I realize that my experience with Demis before my trip to Mexico has been much more pedestrian than I thought. I get the night vision and the sharp sense of smell, plus the advantages of avian and aquatic species, but leaving a fruit-flavored tranny fluid getaway trail? It's just not something the human mind can quite grasp until fed the information.

“We do what we can to get the job done,” Trego says. “And not get...caught...”

I catch the minute flash in the outside mirror at the same time as the coyote. We're over ten miles into the desert, and no one should be following us. A seed of dread sprouts in my gut.

“Jefe, what you wanna do?” Ernesto has sat up straight, his eyes flickering between the darkness in front of us and the lights growing in his mirror. 

“Get to the fence. Go as fast as you can smell.” 

“Okay.” The truck surges forward and the ride gets suddenly harsh and loud. I hear cries from the bed and hope no one is injured, especially Rosa. Our pursuers' lights bounce crazily.

“La Migra?” I ask. Trego's mouth is a thin black line amid his dun and cream fur, all traces of his former ease gone.

“Not on this side,” he says. “They don't care about people leaving.” That's a good tagline, I think. Draws them in with a summary of this whole sordid situation. And it's not just a commentary on what we're doing here tonight; the picture is much bigger than that. But the point of my article is the story, not political commentary. I will write about Trego and what he does, not whether or not he should be doing it.

“Faster, Ernesto,” Trego says calmly.

“I can't smell that fast, brother,” replies the wolf. “I keep veering off the trail anyway.”

“We're not going to outrun them.” The coyote turns backwards to peer through the camper shell, his paw at his waist. Metal gleams dully in the growing light. He's got a pistol shoved in the waistband of his pants. It shouldn't strike me as odd. I've never seen Trego armed, but then again, this is the first—and only—crossing I have taken, so the idea of protection seems a foregone conclusion. It looks good on him, in an outlawish sort of way. “Get as close as you can to the fence.”

“Sí,” Ernesto says tersely. The truck is no match for our pursuers' vehicle, though. It has a stronger engine and probably heavier-duty Baja-style shocks. Soon it's close enough that I can see it's another pickup, a Toyota, high off the ground and roaring over the scrub. Ernesto swerves to avoid something, throwing us all to the right, and the Toyota pulls alongside, then ahead of us, forcing us to stop. A cloud of dust billows up from the ground and dissipates just as quickly.

I have a second to wonder who these people are and why they would they be following us before Mateo kicks open the tailgate and starts running away from the truck. A babel of shouts in Spanish erupts from the Toyota before I see a fox rise up from the bed with a sniper rifle and pop off a quick shot. Mateo screams. Before I can think to move, Trego opens the door and launches himself over me and out of the cab, shouting in Spanish.

"¿Qué mierda creen que están haciendo, idiotas? ¡Identifíquense, basura!"” He draws his pistol and aims it at the fox with the rifle. I climb out of the truck, my heart attempting to beat out of my chest. Mateo is about twenty feet behind the trucks, barely visible in the taillights' glow. He writhes around, holding his left leg. Another fox and two men rise into sight and train their own weapons on Trego as a third man opens the Toyota's passenger door and walks around the back, slowly and with purpose.  His hands are in the pockets of his jacket.  

“You speak English, coyote?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Then don't play dumb with me. You have something I want, and it escapes me why you would want to keep it from me.” The man crosses his arms and leans against the rear of his truck, the four males behind him ready for the order to shoot. Trego moves to aim at the man, but rethinks it. His piece wavers.

“You have no reason to believe me, but I don't know what you're talking about, my friend,” says Trego, throwing his palms up in a defensive posture. The pistol dangles from one claw by its trigger guard. “If I had a real reason to slight you, I would have shot your men by now.” One of the foxes snorts. I haven't seen the coyote's shooting prowess, but I'm inclined to believe him anyway.

“It is a good thing you didn't,” replies the man, “or you would be dead now.” Somehow I believe that too. 

Trego holsters his gun behind his belt. He's either crazy or extremely clever. “I don't shoot people who aren't my enemies,” he says evenly. The crack of a smile makes his face look lopsided. “Pardon my skepticism, but I cannot know which you are until you tell me your name.”

The man holds up his hand and says some words in a language that is not Spanish, but close. Maybe Portuguese. Three of the four men in the bed of the Toyota shoulder their rifles, but one fox maintains his bead on Trego's head.

“Vitinho Raposo,” the man says.  “Your man Mateo Guzman, there, has smuggled quite a bit of money from the Sinaloa coffers, and they would like it back. Either the money or his life, since we have no use for him alive.” I watch Trego's face change imperceptibly as he hears this news. Not even his ears move, but somehow I can sense an unmitigated rage boiling up inside of him. I felt it before, in his bed, but in an entirely different way. 

“Forgive me for prying,” the coyote asks, “but you don't seem the Sinaloa type.”

“I hail from Lisbon, but life has brought me here.” Raposo's air of quiet, effortless confidence is unnerving.  In the ensuing silence between them, I can tell that neither one cares much for the other besides the fact that they both care about Mateo.

“Would you allow me to talk to him for a moment?” asks Trego. “I'd like to give him a piece of my mind before you kill him.” The fox in the Toyota lets out an uneasy grunt.  

Raposo crosses his arms, making his jacket crinkle. “How do I know I can trust you not to deceive me, coyote?  Perhaps you should leave your weapon with me.”

“No honor among thieves, eh?” Trego takes his gun and walks halfway to Raposo before setting it on the ground.  “You have my respect, at least,” he says with a slight grin that doesn't last.  “You do what you must, but I have a few words for the boy.”

“You're gonna let—” Trego throws a paw up at my face, his eyes burning a message into my brain, a look I will always remember. It is the look of a man who considers his actions, and does what he must to survive. I understand. Whatever Mateo did, he put us all in danger, especially with the girls along for the ride. 

As Trego leans in the tailgate and whispers to Agata, I remember that Rosa is the only innocent one here. The fact that Mateo brought this kind of trouble on her as well does not sit well with me. I see Agata cup her palms over Rosa's ears. When the coyote walks over to the boy and kicks him squarely in the ribs, I don't flinch.

"¡Hijo de puta bueno para nada!" I get that much before the rest is drowned out by girlish screaming. Eventually I turn away from that spectacle to see Raposo and his fox rifleman exchanging bemused glances. Raposo rubs his chin in deep thought, and for the first time I wonder if any of us is going to make it through this night.

I hear Trego's footsteps approaching, then stopping beside me. He's breathing hard, the last gasp of a growl dying in his throat. “I'm done with him.”

"¡Maténlo!" Raposo shouts to the fox, who takes aim and fires a single shot in the space of less than a second. Mateo's cries stop immediately. The rage I felt is now a sickly sweet lump in my throat. Despite Agata's attempts to spare Rosa the trauma, the little girl is crying.

“Get in the truck,” Trego whispers to me. “We're done here.” Something about his timbre tells me not to question him. I slip back into the cab, sliding towards the center of the bench seat. I can still see Raposo beyond Trego. The coyote's tail does an odd dance between dominance and fear. 

“I'm afraid we're not done, coyote,” the man says, pushing off the Toyota and sauntering a few steps in our direction. “Your journalist is a liability.” I feel Ernesto's meaty paw clamp down on my wrist before I can move. 

“Don't, gringo,” the wolf murmurs. “Leave it to Trego.” I know he's right, but that helps my frustration little. I never thought I would be putting people in danger just by my presence, but now I can't imagine how I could miss the obviousness of it.

“Why a liability? And why do you think he's a reporter?” Trego asks. 

“Why else would you have an American with you?”

“He's a tourist who lost his passport.”

“That is a matter easily sorted out by Border Patrol and Customs. Why drag him out to the desert? Is he curious as to how you work? Or is he taking a story back to some newspaper, so he can bring more unwanted attention to both of our operations?” 

“Hey boss,” Ernesto calls over my shoulder. “Wie werden wir diese Banditen beseitigen?”

“Fahr los wenn du das Code-Wort hörst.  Ich lenke sie ab und du kannst mich später abholen” Trego looks at me as Ernesto surreptitiously slips the truck into gear but keeps his foot on the clutch. He gives me a wink, but I can tell he's flustered.  I don't speak a lick of German, but I appreciate the ingeniousness of using it as a code language.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. 

“Saving you,” says the coyote, who turns to Raposo. “My friend doesn't seem to want to come out. Something about not wanting to die.” I see his left paw go towards a small cargo pocket as he turns slightly, and something in my gut tells me things are going to go bad very quickly.

“Tell him he doesn't have a choice. He comes with us or you all die, makes no difference to me.” 

“I'd rather see you in a pair of lederhosen,” Trego says as he draws his mousegun and aims upwards, firing. The fox rifleman jerks backwards into the bed of the Toyota, a spray of blood following him down. Then Ernesto is jamming his foot to the floor. The truck lurches forward, sideswiping the Toyota, the door almost slamming on my fingers.

The next few seconds seem to pass slowly before me: Raposo pulls a gun from his jacket pocket, takes aim and fires. Not at me, but at Trego. I see clearly the explosion of red as the slug enters and exits his shoulder. He falls to his knees, but not before raising the gun to take a return shot. Then he is out of sight behind us, glowing red and then gone. I hear a single report as we fly along the scrub toward the border. Though my heart wants to believe Trego shot that son of a bitch in the head, my brain doubts it. A man on the ground, and three others armed in the bed of his truck?

Managing to get my seat belt on, I don't realize I'm crying until I look into the rearview mirror, hoping for a glimpse of something I'm not entirely sure I want to see. Of course there's nothing; we're a good mile away already. I feel Ernesto's paw on my shoulder.

“He did a brave thing,” he says, staring forward. “That's the kind of guy he is. I wouldn't expect any less. Would you?” The wolf doesn't try to tell me everything's going to be fine. I respect him for that, in a way.

After taking a moment to gather myself and find my voice, I reply, “Nope, I wouldn't.” I don't even need to think about that answer. The truck speeds along through the night, Ernesto's window open so he can follow his trail of strawberry-scented transmission fluid to an invisible border. The very concept seems so unrealistic as to render it hilarious. I feel like laughing as much as crying, but I force myself to do neither.

Ernesto negotiates a wash for a good ten minutes, crawling slowly with no lights and no moon. About a mile past the opposite bank, he rolls to a stop but leaves the truck running. 

“This is as far as I go.” The wolf turns to me, his muzzle rendered faux-sinister from the dash lights. “You take the women and head north, straight from my truck. You'll cross about a mile from here. No fence, but you'll know. Another mile up is the highway. The car will be waiting.”

“How will they see us?”

“Agata has the number on a prepaid phone. All they have to do is drive up and back within a mile and they'll find you. I promise.” A small, sad smile creases his eyes. He looks too old to be doing this.

“Thank you,” I say, holding out my hand. The wolf takes it and surrounds me with both arms. Fur and cologne and lupine musk all hit me at once, and it reminds me of Trego. “Find him, will you?”

“I'll try. Things have a way of disappearing in the desert. But I can find my way back there.”

“Don't put yourself in danger.”

“You worry too much, pelado. Now go.” He pushes against my shoulder and I go. Agata climbs out of the bed, her face stiff with resolve, but when she looks at me I can see thinly-masked sadness. Rosa crawls sleepily behind her, and I offer to carry her on my back the rest of the way. She readily accepts. We say our goodbyes to Ernesto and set off northward with the horizon just beginning to lighten. We don't need the tiny flashlight; the point is to have enough light not to trip over vegetation but not enough to be spotted. 

We enter the United States with little more than a sidelong glance at what used to be a low barbed-wire fence stretching to the horizon in either direction. Somewhere, about ten miles to the east and thirteen to the west, is a fifteen-foot tall steel barrier that abruptly begins where the poor excuse for a fence ends. The state of New Mexico is waiting on funds to complete the project. The Border Patrol considers this area a “low risk” for crossings because of the unlikelihood of anyone surviving a thirty-mile trek across open desert, even spread over a few days. The Border Patrol has obviously never considered Trego's unique methods, to their detriment.  

We are mostly silent, save for a warning or two about a prickly bush here or a dip in the terrain there. Rosa never becomes a burden, she's so small, and Agata plods along with the determination of a woman who has been through worse in her life. 

The story ends not with a bang, but a whimper: I see the car before I see the highway, driving east before turning around and driving west again, making slow passes directly ahead of us. I can't believe how accurate Ernesto was, especially considering all the wandering we could have done over the past two miles. 

Rosa squirms off my back when she recognizes a relative, perhaps an aunt, and she runs between bushes to her outstretched arms. Except for the little girl, everyone cries, including me. It's a combination of relief, fatigue, happiness, grief and hope. We cut it short and pile into the car when we see headlights approaching. The drive to Columbus is filled with muted chatter until Rosa speaks up.

"Mamá? ¿Qué le pasó al cachorro?" Agata and I exchange a pained look across the car. 

"Tenemos que quedarnos, así él podrá ayudar a otras personas," the woman says in that pseudo-sweet tone mothers use to explain adult concepts to young children without alarming them.

"Es un buen cachorro," Rosa says.

"Sí, lo es," Agata replies.

"¡El mejor coyote que ha existido!" Rosa exclaims. Now those are words I know. Agata smiles, but turns away when her mouth starts to tremble. 

“Sí,” I venture, translating in my head as best I can. “El Mejor.” 

Half an hour later, we check in at the motel, where I say my goodbyes to Agata and Rosa. We exchange information, and I make her promise to update me in a couple months. Not for a followup story, but because I want to know how they're doing. 

I manage to make it into my room before I break down. I cry silently and freely, but it doesn't last long. Sadness gives way to exhaustion, and I fall into darkness with the scent of coyote all around me.

My Inner Dentist nags me from within as I stare out my window at the John Hancock Tower looming over Boston's Back Bay: Don't chew pencils, you ass. I know better, but it helps me think. It's not uncommon for me to chew a pencil while I edit with a pen. But today I'm thinking.

There's a knock on the door, and my editor opens it without waiting for me to respond. We know each other well enough by now. He peeks his head in, then the rest of him follows.

“Hey, me and Steph are gonna try out that sushi place over on Cambridge Street,” he says. I inwardly cringe at his lack of pronoun prowess. “You want to come?”

“Nah, I brown-bagged it today,” I reply, though my version of a brown bag is most likely going to be a Santa Fe salad from my building's cafeteria. He must have seen something in my eyes, because he lingers in the doorway longer than he normally would. 

“Something bothering you? You can't tell me you're blocked.” He stands with one hand over the top of the door, with his white golf shorts and Tommy Bahama shirt hanging loosely off his frame. 

I shake my head. “Just thinking. Mulling words and clauses over in my head, that sort of stuff.”

“Just read that again,” he says, grinning, jerking his head to the right where he knows I've hung my framed copy of the magazine that contains my article. The article that won the National Magazine Award last year. The article that got me the attention and brought my name into the spotlight, if only for a few months. The dust has since settled, as has my job. My Rolodex has grown, and I'm eternally thankful for that.

I feign what I hope is a convincing grin. “Thanks, but there's only so many times I can read it before it loses its meaning, you know?” He nods, although I can't tell if he really understands. In fact, I've read the article only once, at the acceptance ceremony. In the past year, other things have commanded my attention.

“I gotcha. You don't want anything from the place? I can bring you back a roll or something.”

“Nah, I'm good. Thanks. You two have a good time,” I reply with my blend of politeness and decisiveness that lets him know he is free to leave me be. 

“You bet. Hey, cleaning guy's here. You mind if he comes in?” I shake my head, and that's that. He waves, smiling, and closes the door; his opaque form disappears forthwith. 

Presently, I turn my attention back to my laptop, but the interruption has frazzled my focus. I keep glancing at the frame on the wall, and the cover with its evocative art. Then back to my desk, where the vaguely elephant-shaped award sits next to a small frame with a photograph in it. Before I can lose myself in the photo, I hear a soft knock at the door.

“Yes?” A young-looking coati sticks his muzzle around the door, blinking twice in rapid succession. His nose does a dance while scoping out the room.

“Okay to clean in here, mister?” He pronounces it MEE-ster, and I immediately know where he's from.

“Sure, you're okay. Can I stay?”

“No problem, you got it. I be quick.” He pushes the door to its stops with his cart full of cleaning materials, towels and trash bags. As he begins to dust along my bookshelves, I lean back and give up trying to work. It's almost the end of a long week, and now I'm stuck fighting back thoughts I've worked a long time to suppress. Instead I watch the coati work, idly impressed by the speed at which he moves and the interest he seems to take in an otherwise mundane job. 

“You have big plans for the weekend?” he asks as he lifts up each of the knickknacks on my desk, dusting both the item and the spot on the wood where it sits. His tail makes lazy arcs in the air behind him, somehow keeping clear of anything fragile. 

“Not much,” I reply. My life isn't interesting enough to share, most of the time, so I don't. I sit and stare at the screen until my vision blurs, and I finally give up. I can take an early day and polish a couple of pieces on Sunday morning with brunch and a nice mimosa.

“Who's El Mejor?” The coati's got the small frame in his paw, looking it over while he wipes its words with a cloth.

“Just a guy I knew.” 

“He's not just a guy if you got him in a picture,” he replies, setting the frame back down perfectly. Trego and I are smiling in the photograph, our arms around each other's shoulders, an American Coke in his paw. It was taken the day he took me to a roadside horchata stand, my first full day in Juárez. The Coke was mine, but I traded it to the coyote for the rice milk. It turned out to be mutually beneficial.

“I can't just have a photo of a friend on my desk?” The coati's ears twitch backward, focused on me. I should know better than to feign annoyance to mask something deeper because Demis can tell the difference. 

“Lo siento , sir, I should not have asked.”  

“No, it's okay, I'm sorry if I overreacted,” I apologize, taking the frame and gazing at it before speaking again. “He was a good friend of mine.”

“You can say 'lover' if you want; I don't care,” he says, taking me aback with both his honesty and intuition. When he sees my face, he continues, although he's blushing. “Once you've...been with someone, it stays on you a while.” He lets the words hang before bashfully turning back to his cart for the vacuum. 

“How do you keep secrets from one another?”

“Very carefully.” He draws out the first word, grinning and touching his snout. “He's not with us anymore?”

“No.” What more do I need to say? Risking his life, Ernesto drove back the next day to the site of our confrontation with Raposo and found Trego's body, untouched except for two gunshot wounds. The wolf told me Trego didn't suffer, and I believe him. I have to. With the help of two friends, they buried him at that spot, under a rudimentary cross made of rocks. I plan to visit someday, but when is still an open-ended question.

The coati places his paw on my shoulder. I look into his dark eyes; they hold a conviction none of my American peers can match. “I am sorry. I will pray for both of you. He looks like a good male.” 

“He was. El Mejor.”  

“ Por Supuesto.” He pats my shoulder and goes back to work, softly whistling some tune I've never heard. It makes me smile as I pack my briefcase and snap its latches closed.

“You can lock up if I'm not here, right?”

“Have yourself a good night, Señor,” says the coati without pausing. “I take care of it, yes?”

“Go ahead,” I reply. “I think I'm going to go home and light a candle.”

“I think he would like that. St. Francis of Assisi, in case you wondered.” 

“Thank you.” The patron saint of animals. Makes sense. There's bound to be a store along my commute home. Maybe St. Christopher too; Trego did his share of traveling, after all. My smile grows as I approach the ground floor. By the time I get to my car, the anticipation has lifted my mood.

It's been a long time since I've spent a nice evening with Trego. I wonder how he's been.