Tarnished Beauty by Cecilia Samartin

trunk of a tree until she was certain that all of the ants were gone. But as she made her way toward what appeared to be a dirt road leading away from the river, she thought she felt one or two surviving ants crawling down her back. They remind me that I’m a survivor too, she thought with satisfaction.
    She hiked for several hours through a forest of willow and cottonwood trees draped dreamily over one another. Although she found the dappled shade of the forest refreshing, she became concerned when she detected no sign of previous travelers. She’d been told that the best trails were littered with trash and human excrement. Because of this, it was said that if you lost your way at night, you need only follow your nose to find it again.
    Her canteen was nearly empty when she spotted a farmhouse less than a mile in the distance. As she got closer, she could see that it was a simple one-story structure with a wide covered porch. A laundry line could be seen in the front yard, off of which hung several pairs of denim jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Judging by their impressive size, it was clear that they belonged to a very tall and stocky man. Jamilet approached cautiously, crouching low as she emerged from the shade and protection of the forest. She decided it was best to follow a thicket leading away from the house, toward the barn where she hoped to rest for no more than a couple of hours. If she was lucky, she might find something edible as well. Animal feed would do, anything to stop the nagging ache in her belly.
    The barn door was ajar, and she slipped through with little difficulty. On the ground was a burlap sack that smelled of manure, but no matter, it was large enough to serve as a cover. Taking it with her to the darkest corner of the barn, she curled up like a cat, but before she had the opportunity to settle in beneath it, the barn door yawned open, and the silhouette of a small person, perhaps a child, was visible in the doorway. Also visible was a double-barreled rifle poised at the hip. After more careful inspection Jamilet saw that it was not a child, but a young woman, no more than twenty, and obviously in the last weeks of her pregnancy. She wore a dress several sizes too big for her frame, and workmen’s boots that reached up to her knees. Her reddish hair was loose around her face, and looked as though it hadn’t been brushed in days. But her most distinctive feature was an enormous bruise on her left cheek and eye, swollen enough to make her otherwise pretty face appear lopsided. Jamilet could clearly see it illuminated in the shaft of light that entered through the uneven slats of the barn wall.
    But the young woman’s injury didn’t impair her vision. She quickly spotted Jamilet crouching in the corner. Jamilet scrambled to her feet, and as she did, the young woman pointed the barrel of the shotgun directly at Jamilet’s head. “Get the hell off my property,” the young woman commanded. “I already called the border patrol when I saw you skulking around, and they move fast, so you better do the same if you know what’s good for you.”
    Jamilet reached for her bundle to do just that, and the woman said, “I’ll shoot you in the nuts if you try anything stupid.” She lowered the barrel until it pointed directly at Jamilet’s crotch this time. “Los huevos,” she said in Spanish, suspecting the stranger didn’t understand English. “Bang bang… los huevos.”
    Jamilet responded in English, “I don’t have huevos. I’m a girl just like you.”
    The young woman lowered the barrel slightly, and then raised it again with a start, peering into the darkest corners of the barn, as though expecting someone or something to jump out at her.
    â€œI’m alone,” Jamilet said softly. Even with a rifle pointed directly at her, she was unable to muster the strength to feel even a little bit afraid.
    The redheaded