Several times in her slumber Yolanda floated up to reality, breaking the surface with a great gasping snort before slipping under again.
"Javier!" she shouted in her sleep. "Carlos!"
The ghosts that walk the desert often perish in the baking sun, or twirl away like tumbleweeds in dust storms, their skeletal hold on the living fragile in the wind. Yolanda was not afraid of these. She would cross herself against them.
