“A girl in a yellow shirt,” Maria Teresa said, repeating the words twice to make him listen. “A girl in a yellow shirt.”
The clerk shook his head without looking at her or checking the security monitor.
By three in the afternoon, Jorge was walking beside her, his small shoulders tense under his oversized t-shirt.
He cracked his knuckles, the sharp sound echoing off the brick wall of the neighborhood car wash.
“We should ask the people on the corner,” Jorge said.
They knocked on the screen door of the green house at the end of the block, where the porch light was already burned out.
An old man holding a flyswatter peered through the rusted mesh, his eyes flat and unblinking.
“We did not see any girl,” the man said, before pushing the wooden inner door shut.
Maria Teresa touched her silver cross necklace, her fingers searching for the cool metal to steady her breathing.
They walked past Rogelio Fernandez’s driveway, where his truck sat parked near the locked wooden gate of his backyard workshop.
The padlock on the gate was large and silver, gleaming under the bright Texas sun.
Jorge looked at the padlock and then at his mother’s pale face.
“Maybe she went to the library,” Jorge said, though his voice lacked conviction.
“She had the grocery list, Jorge,” Maria Teresa said, her voice trembling slightly. “She had the list in her hand.”
They walked back to their porch as the streetlights began to flicker on, casting long, orange shadows across the dusty yard.
Inside the house, the air was thick and smelled of grease from the neighboring diner.
Patricia sat on the living room rug, twisting her dark hair around her index finger as she watched the muted television screen.
“Where is Ana?” Patricia asked, her voice rising at the end of the word
