The Golden Myth
Nazario Loera was thirty-four years old when the eviction notice arrived, and the paper smelled of wet wool and old ink. I was a border patrol officer in Sonora, or so the badge on my chest claimed, but the job paid in promises, not pesos, and my wife Elena was waiting in the town hospital with a lung that coughed up blood into a handkerchief I had to boil every night. The district chief, Don...
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