By the next morning, the milk had soured on the counter, and the sun rose over Juarez Street without any sign of Ana.
Three weeks later, the dry Texas heat had turned the front yard to a pale, dusty brown, but the porch remained the center of the search.
Rogelio Fernandez walked up the wooden steps, his heavy work boots thudding against the planks.
He carried a heavy metal flashlight, the black casing scratched from years of use in his backyard workshop.
“We will search the creek bed behind the rail line today, Maria,” Rogelio said, his booming voice carrying across the yard.
He handed the heavy flashlight to Maria Teresa, his ring of keys jingling in his trouser pocket as he reached out his hand.
“The police said they went through there already,” Maria Teresa said, rubbing her temple with her thumb to dull the ache.
“The police do not look the way neighbors look,” Rogelio said.
He adjusted his cap and looked down the empty street.
“We need to check the concrete culverts before the afternoon rain starts,” he added, pointing toward the tracks.
Maria Teresa gripped the cold metal of the flashlight and nodded.
