“Here come the popsicle sticks,” pointed Brum.

“They aren’t popsicle sticks, Brum! I think they’re called… wooden beams. Maybe I learned that in Minecraft. The 2025 update was out early this month.”

Brum rolled her eyes. Her brother’s conversations almost always circled back to gaming. 

“You know…” he continued, “Mom says the same thing about houses in Houston. She says that they are built with popsicle sticks,” screamed Rami, struggling as the chilly wind blew his words away.

“Well, boy, they are the only thing holding this bridge together, and no one… I mean, no one has been maintaining it for the last 100 years. So, there is the ever-impending chance this bridge might collapse beneath us, leading us to our inevitable death,” said Brum with a rather dark grin.

Suddenly, Rami’s eyelashes parted like a splendorous theater curtain giving way to a stellar new performance.

“¡Mamaaaaaaaaaá!” cried the overgrown eleven-year-old boy as he ran back into the compartment, hoping it was yet another one of Brum’s torturous antics.

“I’m just kidding… well, I’m not, but… come back here! If anything, there’s a much higher chance of the train derailing! Can’t you just grow up? Plus, we already crossed like… three of them!”

As Brum was not ready to get scolded, she decided to stay and watch the Porfirian-era train escape death yet another time. Sadly, she was a bit proud of herself for scaring her brother. Now, in her defense, it had been a rough night, having left home as they did, not being able to get any signal on her phone, and leaving Baba, her dad, behind. Being the humanitarian he was, he had to report to work since “hospitals never sleep,” and someone needed to treat the wounded from the riots.

As the rusted wheels of the train lazily crushed rocks and rotten pieces of wood beneath, Brum had a moment of contemplation. She truly had never seen this part of the country or inhaled the morning fragrance of charcoal and freshness.

The highlands were undoubtedly charming with their crisp, blue skies and scattered villages along semi-arid hills. She could see adobe houses here and there, some in ruins and others inhabited, apparently, by the long shadows of kids and dogs.

It was true what Mom had said about riding a train and being able to see landscapes that escaped one’s eyes on a highway. It was also a better way to move “unnoticed.” Although, as soon as they had crossed the border, they had felt the worst was left behind.

There was a certain hopefulness in the air, maybe the faint specks of genuine freedom which Brum was now breathing in after a very long time. And it had nothing to do with the branded American version, the institutionalized freedom of an authoritarian state. Maybe it had everything to do with the smell of moist earth. What a terrible irony it would have been to had fallen from that bridge after having cheated Tirano’s agents at the border.

The first rays of the day were out, spreading their orange hue across the land. A ten-year-old version of Brum suddenly peeked her head through the broken crystal on the black metallic door. “Brum, time for breakfast! Come on… you’re such a slowpoke!”

“Who are you callin’ slowpoke, slowpoke? And, Tara, careful with that broken glass. Do you want to end up like those chickens we saw earlier?”

“O-M-G, Brum!” Tara rolled her eyes with exasperation. “What broken glass are you talking about? Is it this sharp, transparent thingy around my head? Oh-oh, I’m cutting my chicken neck, noooo!” dramatized the little menace who was, to be fair, Brum’s best sarcasm apprentice. Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she vanished.

Great timing! Brum thought as her frozen fingers were starting to coil over the elegantly contorted iron of the observation car.

A wave of warmth hit Brum as she reentered the compartment. The whole scene was quite surreal: mostly local people from nearby hamlets serenely sitting in what once was a luxury cabin. She could make out the intricate design on the peeling, mossy wallpaper and the remains of cream lace curtains eerily hanging from the rusted poles.

How many stories have boarded this train in a century? the girl wondered. There was a special quality of silence on the older passengers’ highland, dried-up faces. It was a meditative silence, one that whispered unintelligible ancestral secrets.

“Ancestral secrets… Is that even a thing?” Brum puffed. The train seemed livelier now. She squeezed through goats that blocked the hallway and dodged a flying orange hen chased by a raggedy boy. Along the way, her long, copper-streaked hair almost got caught. But, for a second, she thought she had captured a scent of mystery and longing, and… could she smell onions too?

Around her seat, the stench of onions intensified.

“Well, thank you for being so considerate of other people on this train!” she grumbled. Someone had placed an overflowing sack of onions on the shelf above her seat. Clearly, Mom and the kids were awaiting her reaction and couldn’t contain their laughter. Brum’s irritation only increased. She hated it when her family laughed at her. On this unusual occasion, though, her annoyance was short-lived, and a smirk unwillingly crept in its place.

It was rather bizarre to see the family drinking hot cocoa on a steam engine, so nonchalant. When had Mom prepared it and with what supplies? It was in her nature to get crafty in the worst of situations.

“Are you okay, Brum?” asked her mom, concerned.

“You’ve never asked me if I’m okay… are you okay?” replied the girl as she sat on the once-red, velvety seat facing her.

“Listen! We’re all worried for Baba, but there’s no signal here, so I say: let’s wait until we get to El Nidal. Meanwhile, we can imagine this is an adventure and open our eyes. Have I told you that México is magical? Here… Mayan chocolate, the best!” said Mom, convincingly, as she conveniently materialized one of those stainless-steel thermoses with hot cocoa. Brum could see through her mother’s attempts to unravel her heart with a pinch of cardamom. Mom then added with frustration, “In my rush, I was only able to bring these,” as she pulled two herbology books from her recycled leather bag.

When Brum opened the thickest volume of “Magical Properties of Meso-American Herbs and Their Application in Ayurvedic Medicine,” the first thing she noticed was an old TV remote control separating its worn-out pages. Suddenly, a smidgen of paranoia crept into her belly, as the ownership of such electronics could have been reason enough to land them in prison. And, as backlash for risking their lives further, Brum felt the impulse to tell her, for the twentieth time, to use a bookmark. But she didn’t. She couldn’t, not this time.

Mom had been exceptionally strong. Being forced to leave her husband was already enough to cause heartache. Not being able to save the full library was just the cherry on top. By now, Brum was good at reading her mother’s eyes. They told her that the woman was still hopeful that, by some miracle, no one vandalized their house in the same way they’d vandalized the neighbors’. After all, Brum’s mother was an unorthodox Mexico City girl, a sort of scientist gone rogue. She was profoundly obsessed with the healing properties of plants, an obsession that was starting to rub off on Brum. Unintentionally and out of boredom, really, as it all seemed to be borderline witchcraft in Brum’s mind. She just had not had a chance to voice it, not when the entire medical system in the U.S. collapsed, and Mamá’s brujería was all they had.  Neither when, ironically, the food shortages pushed them to eat fresh foods from her garden.  As much as Brum liked to complain, not eating from a can or a box meant, let’s say, happier bowels.

“I did bring my field journal, Mom. As pretentious as that might sound. I’m hoping to record everything… to show Baba when he comes,” she explained a bit sheepishly, which was alarming considering that she rarely let her guard down. From her huichol bag, Brum retrieved a conglomerate of yellowed parchment with a hand-stitched leather cover. It was probably her biggest treasure for, as makeshift as it looked, she felt it complemented her personality.

“Fantastic,” said Mom a bit absent-mindedly just before reverting to her frustrated mode. “Would you two just quit kicking?”

“Rami started!” said Tara decisively as she tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and tightened her rosy lips, seeming exceptionally proper.

“She told me I was a dummy, Mamá!” pleaded the boy, as he always did, his green eyes now red from bouts of crying.

Suddenly, the train started to slow down.

“Is the train stopping? Why’s the train stopping?” asked Rami with concern as he rose to look through the window.

“Oh, would you look at that, they’re probably coming to kick you off the train. They got tired of all your whining,” said Brum tauntingly before her mother could give a reasonable answer. Rami hid his head behind his mother’s colorful shawl and listened as she tried keeping her cool with a few breathing exercises.

“That’s not funny, Brum! Stop scaring your brother and… no more sarcasm, please!”

“CATORCE STATION!” the old porter proclaimed, waiting by the door, as he meticulously put on his very official-looking blue hat and vest, one that seemed to have been religiously ironed. He glanced Brum’s way briefly and, knowing they were the only tourists he had seen in the last many years, he added with a wink:

“Number one travel destination of the Mexican highlands!” Positively beaming.

“This is not our stop, you guys! We still have a long way, so just stay put and let the people and animals through,” warned Mom.

When the train came to a complete halt, as it blew its whistle, there was a bit of turmoil: the goats were getting off, the boy with the hens scrambled and, yes, finally the owner of the onion sack had the nerve to claim his baggage from above Brum’s head.

Good, the girl thought, we’ll have the place for ourselves. And as it was unlike her to refrain from snarky comments, she turned to Tara.

“Who knew! The stink was not you after all!”

Fortunately, Tara didn’t care, for she, the lover of colors and sweetness, had just spotted her holy grail across the dusty window. A feast of pigments, nuts, and glazy sugar seemed to be approaching the train, and all she had to do was wait. 

The CatorceStation seemed to be no more than a desert outpost, just a platform with two wooden rooms. All the people dispersed quickly. Some jumped into a beat-up jeep that worked, apparently, as public transport.

Feeling stuffed, the kids slid the window open. Brum could hear the jeep’s driver yelling by the tracks. “Anyone else forReal de Catorce?”

There must be towns nearby, she thought, but all she could see was a massive mountain range on the horizon.

Just before pulling away from the Catorce Station, a candy salesman jumped aboard.

“¡Alegríaaas! ¡Palanquetaaas! ¡Jamoncillooos! ¡Cajetaaa!” He yelled, which was frankly unnecessary as they were the only people left on the train.

“ALL ABOARD!” hollered the old porter while he perilously boarded with two tidy suitcases; one of them, Brum noticed, had a unique hand-painted design. Shortly after, the steam engine’s whistle announced the impending departure.

“Excuse me, sir! Four palanquetas, please!” requested Mom, confirming with wide-smile Tara. The candy man approached awkwardly, his every step jingling while pushing forward two heavy wooden sticks swarming with sweets that hung in such a way as to obstruct his face. Brum was too distracted to notice the leather sandals and thick ankle rattles under the cotton white pants until the man was standing right next to her.

After handing Mom the four palanquetas, his native, feline eyes finally peeked from behind a row of caramelized apples.

“Amaranth for the goddess,” he whispered.

“The wha-?” mumbled Brum.

“Amaranth for the goddess!” he insisted as he pushed forward bags of alegrías that were, in reality, squares of amaranth bathed in molasses.

The steam engine pulled from the station on time and it was now making the sound of an increasingly thirsty desert dog.

After his Holy Pushiness made sure Brum had collected four bags of amaranth, he refused Mom’s money and turned around. Curiously, this time, the candy man seemed rather agile and stronger, as if the weight of the sticks didn’t matter anymore. He approached the main door, which was still open since the porter was still graciously assisting the distinguished gentleman who had boarded tardily. And, holding on to the handrail, the creepy candy man pushed his merchandise out of the moving car, allowing it to fall somewhere along the tracks.  A second later, he turned around to look at Brum and with a predatory smile said:

“My humble offering!” doing a little bow before jumping off the train moving, by then, at full speed.

Mom squealed and covered her mouth, her eyes protruding in disbelief. Rami’s jaw dropped as he froze. Tara ran to the window, partly horrified and partly curious to see how many pieces the candy man had broken into as if he were some gigantic, ethnic Lego. Brum followed Tara with hesitation only to discover that the creepy candy man and his cargo had vanished.