“I . . . can’t . . . stand it . . . anymore . . .” Raúl gasps. “Please, Adán.” “I can’t.” “I’m begging.” Adán looks at Manuel. The old bodyguard shakes his head. He’s not going to make it. “Stop the car,” Adán orders. He takes the pistol from Raúl’s belt, opens the car door, then gently slides out from under his brother’s head and lays it back on the seat. The desert air is pungent with sage and hermosillo. Adán lifts the pistol and points it at the top of Raúl’s head. “Thank you, brother,” Raúl whispers. Adán pulls the trigger twice.
