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  He watches the herky-jerky of dogs fanning in and out of the moonlit street. Every dog a winner, every dog a natural predator, if only for survival. It had never occurred to Uli before that flesh could be picked too—like scrap, like anything else. These dogs will fight. The red glistens over every dog’s snout. Uli dreams of money, dreams of going home to Texas.

  That night Uli lays beside Alma and tries to fall asleep. He makes lists of everything he’ll buy with June’s death money:

  Some new clothes for the baby

  A new pair of jeans (Levi’s 514s)

  Two Estrella Roja bus tickets to Ciudad Juárez (one for him, one for Alma and her baby)

  A laptop computer

  A motel room for two nights in Rincón de Waterfill where they’ll prepare to cross

  Two Bonafont tanks of purified water

  A detailed map with railroads and safe homes

  A coyote to guide them into West Texas

  He makes a list of things he’ll eat inTexas:

  A Whataburger Jr. with cheese (no pickles)

  The Cheesesteak LuAnn Platter at Luby’s (with cabbage and mac ’n’ cheese)

  Carnitas from La Playa on Harlingen’s Sunshine Strip (charro beans on the side)

  An orange picked fresh from Sampson’s grove (with salt)

  A pint of Blue Bell ice cream (vanilla)

  A plate of brisket (moist) from Rudy’s

  A thick stack of mixta tortillas from HEB

  Anything from Taco Bell.

  He makes a list of things he’ll bring his mother:

  A cone of piloncillo

  A bottle of Sotol

  A carton of Faro brand cigarettes

  A wedding picture from his father’s home (on their honeymoon in Mexico City)

  A moldy suit from his father’s closet (if only to bury).

  And just as sleep takes hold of him the window bursts. A shockwave warps the air of the room into a pitch-perfect hum, the clanging of nails singing in unison as they enter the home.

  There isn’t a square inch of their bodies spared.

  Uli only feels what he can see, which is to say he only feels the flash of the blast right before the nails pierce the soft flesh of his eyelids and then his sinus cavities, his foramen, lacerum, his vomer, his dura matter, his pre-frontal cortex, his meninges, his corpus collosum, his cerebrum and then his occipital lobe through which the nails reach the back of his skull and then slick out into the heat.

  For however brief a moment, there is consciousness in the frontal lobe. Even as the nails plunge. Even as the neurons scatter their electric static into the constellations leftover from the remnants of Uli’s brain, they pull from memory, for just an instant, the sensations and sounds leftover from the untouched amygdala and temporal lobes.

  The instant before he dies, Uli remembers the forgotten sensation of drinking breast milk for the first time and the way water felt on his skin when he was just a boy. He remembers the swimming pool birthday party he had when he was nine, when he lived somewhere else, and how it felt pretending he was an astronaut in space just floating in the water like that. He remembers the sound of his mother’s voice like tin in the cochlea of his ear as she shouted at Cuauhtémoc from above the pool’s surface.

  And she’s forever shouting like that, her voice fading into oblivion. Words that have no meaning.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel is a tough, elusive and (at times) mystical undertaking. There’s no one way to cut the thing, which is half the struggle. The other half is finding the time and means and support to keep going, to keep grinding against the seemingly impossible task of creating something from nothing. To sit down and dutifully write a cast of characters, their motivations, their anxieties, and place them in a world that gives them something to act and react against. And hopefully, if done right, those characters will deliver us to some fundamental truth about ourselves—people on this earth trying our best. This novel is a story about people trying their best, and the gravity of those outcomes under certain circumstances.

  I think that verb, to try, is the story of 21st-century transmigration, but also the story of the writer too who confronts the impossible task of doing justice to those nuanced and complex characters. This is especially true of writing about the people of Mexico and especially those caught up in America’s drug war there. I’d like to think I tried my best, but it should be said that I didn’t do it alone. The fundamental truth is that these people, in no particular order, are the people who brought me.

  My first tribe:

  My wife, Sophia, who believed in me and my words from the first day and who (against all advice) married a writer. Thank you for loving both the light and dark. And for reading, patiently, every single draft with penin-hand. Most of all, thanks for reminding us of how far we’d come every time I thought I was out for the count. Thanks, too, for all of the free food.

  My mom who always took me to get books that filled my mind with the first gems of literature. And who read me the scariest stories I’ve ever heard. I owe you everything good in my writing career. Thanks, too, for the Mexican citizenship and for letting me become a pilot. That came in handy.

  My dad who taught me the joy of the grind, of the sustained pursuit of things that in other lives would have alluded us. Who taught me to keep moving, to stay persistent and to love the work that you do. But more importantly, to “dance with who brung you.”

  My big brother, Robert, who unknowingly blended the great Mexican tradition of nota roja with the absurdity of late 20th-century Texas. Unhinged stories, Art Bell, hilarious conspiracy theories, overheard conversations on scanner radios and strange things in general that so much fused the remembered traditions in our blood with our lived experiences as brown boys in Texas. East of the Rockies, you’re on the air.

  My little sister, Cristina, who always reminded me to bloom where I was planted and who always gives the best reading recommendations. Thanks for keeping me young, keeping my writing fresh and for letting me be your big brother, which was the first thing that defined me. In other words, we’re cookin’.

  My Fundamentals Tribe:

  Larry Heinemann, who was my first mentor and the first writer to give me the time of day. Thanks for your humor, your guidance and your book, Paco’s Story, which was the spark that birthed the fire for this novel.

  Dr. Charles Rowell, who gave me my first editorial job and introduced me to the world of literary magazine production, but also revision and editing and the art of sticking to your creative vision.

  Josh Pudnos, for your unwavering friendship and dark humor, which was essential to getting through the various iterations of this manuscript.

  Helena María Viramontes, J. Robert Lennon and Ernesto Quiñonez who brought me to Cornell and believed in me and my ideas. Thank you for never giving up on me. I would have never finished this without your guidance and patience.

  Ellen Duffer and Ladette Randolph who believed in my writing way early and who allowed me to share it with the world via Ploughshares and the Ploughshares Blog.

  Daisy Parente for her critical eye and belief in me and this book despite all odds. A million thanks for your encouragement, friendship and edits. “Safe Home” and this book have your fingerprints all over them and I couldn’t be more grateful.

  Andrew Lund who helped me navigate the finer details of putting this book out into the world. You made this a better endeavor.

  My Cornell tribe:

  Stephanie Vaughn, Michael Koch, Bob Morgan, Alice Fulton, Joanie Mackowski, Debbie Castillo, James McConkey, Elizabeth Anker, Mary Pat Brady, Edmundo Paz Soldán, Margo Crawford, Roger Gilbert, Charlie Green, Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon, Elizabeth A. Edmondson, Andrew Marc Boryga, Cecilia Lawless, Rafa Acosta, Rodrigo Hasbún, Liliana Colanzi, Aisha Gawad, Alex Chertok, John Searcy, Sam Nam, Chris Drangle, Adam O’Fallon Price, Elizabeth Watkins Price, Emma Catherine Perry, Matt Ritger, Lauren Schenkman, M.S. Coe, Julie Phillips Brown, Téa Obreht, Dexter Thomas
Jr., Rachel Coye, Elizabeth Lindsey Rogers, Orlando Lara, Hajara Quinn, Chuck Zeilenga, John Murillo, Clayton Pityk, Christian Howard, Laurel Lathrop, Sally Wen Mao, Bradley Pecore, Nancy Quintanilla, Meredith Gudesblatt, Stuart O’Nan and Aaron Rosenberg

  My Mexico City Tribe: Ulices Piña, Aileen Teague, Aubrey Herrera, David Lida, Francisco Goldman, Efrén Ordóñez, Lindsay Van Dyke, Lorenzo Herrera y Lozano, Jackal Tanelhorn, Alba Sinchanclas Marín, Savitri Arvey, Arturo Mendoza, Claudia Arruñada Sala, Hazel Black-more, Cesar Favila, Tanya Huntington and Dra. Margarita Vargas.

  My Texas Tribe: Juan Pablo Lopez, Hector Lopez, Mark Haber, Leo Antenangeli, Marcus Antenangeli (for saving this novel from the depths of my dead computer—Buzzingo!), Lupe Mendez, Jasminne Mendez, Mike Emery, InPrint Houston, Michael Olivas, José Angel Hernández, Stephanie Ledesma, Reyes Ramirez, Gabriela Baeza Ventura, Eloísa Pérez-Lozano de Castelan and my incredible and brilliant colleagues at the University of Houston-Downtown, especially Robin Davidson, Jane Creighton, Giuliana Lund, Sandra Dahlberg, Nell Sullivan, Chuck Jackson, Michelle Moosally, DoVeanna S. Fulton, Ed Hugetz, Salvador Salinas and Paul Kintzele.

  My Pan-World Tribe: Kyle Dargan, Nelly Rosario, Santiago Vaquera-Vásquez, Tayari Jones, Randolph Thomas, Megan Carpentier, Wayde Compton, Jason Rocha and Sherman Alexie.

  My Institutional Tribes: the Fulbright-Garcia Robles Scholarship, the Cornell Latino Studies Program, the Freund Fellowship, the Pickett Fellowship, the Tinker Grant, the Mario Einaudi Center, the Cornell Latino Living Center and the LSSO, COMEXUS, the James McConkey Grant, the Freund Fellowship, Ploughshares Magazine (especially Lauren Groff), the Pshares Blog, the Pushcart Prize, the Picador Guest Professorship at the University of Leipzig, the Veranstaltungsforum der Verlagsgruppe Georg von Holtzbrinck, the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD), the Institute for the Recruitment of Teachers, EPOCH Journal, the Callaloo writer workshops, the MFA program at Cornell University, the University of Houston-Downtown, the National Autonomous University of Mexico and the Centro de Investigaciones Sobre América Latina y El Caribe in Torre II of the National Autonomous University of Mexico.

  And, of course, Nicolás Kanellos and Marina Tristán for their intelligence, patience, wit and encouragement in helping bring this book into the world. I’m so grateful to have this book with Arte Público Press.