Page 49 of The Lost Guardian

He pulled out his journal, scooped an old pen from the center console, and began sketching. There was no particular theme, just snippets of scenery and images as they came to him. Children in brightly colored clothing battling invisible enemies with sticks. Wild guanacos bending to eat cactus blossoms. An Indigenous woman hauling a bucket of water with a smiling, toothless baby on her back. Moments frozen in time.

The dull ache of longing warred with sweet kinship in his chest—to the people, to the land, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both. But his heart lightened and his worries lifted, if only a little, as the warmth of connection won him over.

He couldn’t bring himself to believe in Atahualpa’s curse. He couldn’t fathom why this terrifyingly capable realist of a woman beside him seemed to. But in the end, it didn’t matter.

If there was even a chance that these people, their people, were in danger, what could Santiago do but stay along for the ride?

“We can stop there for gas and food,” Ali said. Santiago blinked out of his stupor. He realized he hadn’t said a word in hours, lost to his own thoughts and drawings. Although Ali had not offered anything in the way of conversation, either, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d acted rudely.

Their stop was quick, both using the restroom and choosing food and drinks for the long drive ahead. Once the car was fueled and they were once again on their way, Santiago began idly sketching in his notebook, wondering how to strike up a conversation with Ali.

“Where are you from, exactly?” he asked her, determined to make up for his previous antisocial behavior. He drew the outline of a few flowers.

Ali glanced over at him, a plantain chip paused halfway to her lips. She recovered quickly, focusing back on the road and popping it into her mouth. She didn’t hurry in chewing, and he resisted the urge to squirm in his seat, wondering if he was wrong to break their silence. He ducked his head, furiously shading the flowers as she carefully passed a slower pickup truck, neatly sliding them into their lane again.

He had noticed back in LA how—in stark contrast to her reckless motorcycle handling—Ali was a very safe driver. Santiago liked that.

The woman was full of fascinating contradictions. He liked that, too.

“I was born in Lima,” she finally answered.

“Does your family still live there?” he waited a beat before asking, so as not to scare her off from answering.

She paused again.

“Just my younger sister.”

“Not your parents?”

“No,” Ali said, the word clipped.

Santiago definitely should have stuck to silence. He focused on the blossoms blooming on the page, taking care to properly detail each petal.

Long minutes passed.

“They died a long time ago,” Ali said quietly.

Santiago swung his head around to stare, surprised that she had spoken.

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

An empty platitude, he thought to himself.

“I imagine it’s never easy losing your family,” he said. “But it’s especially difficult when you’re young. At least, that’s how it felt to me.”

Feels to me. Abuelo Manco’s death may not have hit him as hard as his dad’s, but he still felt the loss keenly. Her eyes peeled from the road, speed decreasing slightly, to regard him thoughtfully.

“Were you close with your father? Before he passed?”

“Yes and no,” Santiago answered after considering the question. “He was very involved. Always home by six for dinner. He taught me how to drive and came to all my games—”

“Games?” Ali interrupted. “You played sports in school?”

“Hey!” Santiago lifted a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

Ali laughed, but not at him. He laughed with her.

“Okay,” Santi admitted, “so he came to all my Eagle Scout ceremonies.” She laughed again when he explained what that meant, and he wished it would go on forever.