The Transmigration of Bodies by Yuri Herrera

began to throb. The Redeemer took out a smoke then thought better of it and put it back in the pack, glanced at the Castros’ place and then turned the other way. He crossed his arms. Fuckit, he repeated.
    He heard the Castros’ metal door open then slam shut, and then panting, encumbered by sobbing, and steps approaching. He shot a quick sidelong look at the Bug and with an almost-imperceptible hand-pat signaled Stay put to Vicky and the Neeyanderthal.
    When he felt him a half-step away, the Redeemer turned to face the man. Tho they knew each other, Baby Girl’s father stared and stared and stared without recognizing him, and steadily with each passing second the man aged as the news inhabited his body, despite his attempt to resist it, his attempt to hold it at bay with rage. He slammed the Redeemer against the hood of the Bug and started shouting in his face.
    Bring her to me! You bring her to me now! In one piece, you sonofabitch! You bring her to me safe and sound, right now!
    The man was clenching his fists and trembling and still making up his mind whether to throttle the Redeemer. Then his boys flew out of the house, berserk. The older one wielded a club and the younger one a bat, itching to find something to justify their tunnel vision, their hatred. As soon as he saw them, the Neeyanderthal got out of the Bug, thumbs hooked through his beltloops; Vicky stepped out too, slower, eyeing them from her side of the car. One of the two must have made an impression on the brothers, who continued their approach, but slower now. The younger pointed his bat in the Redeemer’s face.
    The Mennonite held a hand up and said That’s not the way, son.
    The kid stared at the Redeemer, reluctant to let go of his rage, but then his father began to sob and both boys dropped their weapons to the ground and held him.
    The Redeemer thought they’d do better to scratch the wound than bandage it: those who lose a child shouldn’t be consoled; parents die to make room for their kids, not the other way around. He wasn’t being cruel; he just felt that a gash that deep had to be respected, not swaddled over with cuddles.
    Sir, said the Mennonite, Will you let the nurse-lady in? Just for a minute.
    The man nodded without looking up.
    We’re going in too, the Neeyanderthal said.
    The man nodded again. Okay let’s go, he said, turning toward the metal door and heading off, eight hundred years older than when he’d come out it the other way.
    In the Castros’ living room hung a family coat of arms. The Castros had been noblemen and lords in some century or other in some castle or other on the opposite side of the world—and there was the colorful coat of arms to prove it. They were different from the Fonsecas that way: the only things the Castros held on to from their poorer days were those they’d marshaled up from many generations back. On the walls of the Castros’ living room, besides the coat of arms, there was nothing but photos of the boys in team uniforms and a diploma granted to Baby Girl for having finished her degree in psychology. Psychology. For fuck’s sake.
    They descended a freezing staircase. The basement was full of shadows cast by a dim corner lamp backlighting a dozen chains with hooks from which hung calves, turkeys, and half a cow. The Redeemer didn’t say a word but at the sight of his raised brows, Castro said We don’t trust outside meat.
    In a room adjacent to their private abattoir he saw Romeo, laid out atop some boxes. One of his legs was falling off the side, as tho he’d made a quick move to get up. They encircled the body in silence. Only the Neeyanderthal rubbed his hands together, saying Damn it’s cold. Vicky approached and began to study what was once Romeo. The Redeemer noticed he was dirty, that he still reeked of alcohol and had marks on his knuckles but no sign of blows to the face. Vicky examined his head and opened his shirt and palpated his ribs, sunken, beneath a blue bruise. The