Dante’s K-car, a rental provided to him by the company, slows to a stop, a popping rising from underneath the tires as it rolls over rocks, a persistent hissing pressing out from under its hood, a greyish cloud seeping from the hood’s seams. Dante, standing next to the over-heated automobile, could smell what he assumed was a mixture of rubber and auto fluid wandering through his nose, a fine perspiration dotting his forehead and pooling underneath his eyes. Dust spreads across the South Texas town in large wisps, a searing hush twisting in devilish whirls, brushing past Dante’s ears, finding hollow, empty spaces echoing the ghostly voices of dead aliens who penetrated the border, only to find their mortal body could not outrun the need for hydration. Dante surveyed the area for any signs of life. The town bears the appellation of a Spanish namesake, an inheritance of from a saint, transformed from the English, made holy by adding the word “san” in front of it, something like San Migue
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