Easterland

The boy was standing, hatless, in the sunlight at the side of the road. He was wearing jeans and a faded orange tee shirt and he stood utterly motionless facing the highway in front of him. He appeared to be about four or five years old. Paul slowed the cab and looked around. It was mid afternoon and there was no traffic on the highway in either direction. No cars pulled off in the desert. No one the boy might have belonged to. Then he saw the small sign hanging around the boy’s neck and knew that nobody would be coming back for him. A single word printed in crayon. Rafael. Paul switched off the ignition and stepped out of the cab. Slammed the door hard to see if the boy would notice. He didn’t. Hola, Rafael. Paul approached the small figure slowly so as not to spook him. The boy had smooth dark features and closely cropped black hair. Paul passed a hand in front of the boy’s eyes, which were an astonishing bright blue but as blank and lifeless as lumps of turquoise. Boo! The boy’s nut-brown face remained impassive. Well shit, Rafael. Paul looked around the desert as if for inspiration. What am I supposed to do with you? He took the boy’s hand and walked him around to the passenger side of the taxi and strapped him in. Then he drove to Magdalena, where he paraded the boy through two super-markets and a flea market set up in a parking lot. No one recognized the boy. At the flea market two Mexican women took one look at the boy’s eyes and turned away, making the sign of the cross. Paul thought about calling Doc and asking for advice but decided he didn’t want Doc’s advice. He was a grown man. Surely he could figure out what to do with a little zombie boy.