Written by: Russell Nichols
Illustrated by: Daniela Jordan-Villaveces
The sun slumped below the horizon, as if turned off by the constant grumbling.
Hunched aboard a rusted tractor, Jorge Ramirez rode the bulky machine back and forth and back and forth over his mother’s seven-acre patch of barren land. This twilight ride had become his sacred ritual. No music. No words. Just rotating metal parts and a mechanical rumble as massive tires tumbled over fallow dirt.
But on this day, the worn-out tractor, without notice, shuddered, then stopped. Jorge checked the fuel gauge—it had half a tank of petrol. He climbed down from the machine in mud-caked boots. Engine seemed fine, gears intact. No blown fuse or bad battery. He lifted his sombrero to scratch his head, his weary gaze sweeping the desolate, dry land. And then he saw it: there, glowing in the last gasps of light, less than a meter right in front of the tractor, a small plant had risen, its fragile form adorned with bulbous blue leaves. Jorge fell to his knees, his calloused brown hands cradling the little plant.
How could this be? He wondered. How could life sprout from this land that had been lifeless for years?
How could this be? He wondered. How could life sprout from this land that had been lifeless for years?
****
Later that night, Teresa slogged into the house after an hour-long autobús ride. The weight of her bag dragged her left shoulder down with sharp pangs. She leaned over, letting the bag fall to the floor. The house felt cold. In the kitchen, she groaned. There was no dinner prepared. Again. She called out to Jorge twice, but received no response.
Teresa limped to a child’s room, converted into a botany lab, festooned with marigolds. She found her husband in dim light, his eyes glued to a microscope.
“You can’t neglect your tractor like that,” she said.
Jorge said nothing.
Teresa massaged the knots in her lower back. Every day, she toiled for hours cleaning the filthy mansions of rich ex-pats who chose to cash out their Golden Years in Central Mexico. Sweeping. Mopping. Wiping. Washing. Repeat. They weren’t heartless people, she tried to convince herself on those autobús rides home. But they had so much…stuff. Even dirtier than the stuff was what festered beneath it: a foreign-bred entitlement and disregard for the environment that only fueled her drive to launch Nana Nano.
For nine years, this dream had been simmering. Every time Teresa scraped mildew from infinity tubs or wiped mezcal-smudged fingerprints from panoramic windows, she imagined a different world. And poured every hard-earned peso into making it a reality. Nana Nano was her brainchild: a pod the size of a tomatillo that, once activated, emitted a mist of nanobots to repel grime, digest bacteria and regenerate interiors overnight. Unlike the imported smart gadgets her clients worshipped, this invention was hers—a high-tech, low-maintenance tribute to generations of invisible labor. These gringos trusted robots to vacuum their marble floors and feed their Bengal cats. Why not trust her to clean up their messes her way? On her terms? The prototype sat on a shelf in the kitchen. Her husband couldn’t see it. He was too busy, neck-deep in ancient dirt, to realize how rich their future could be.
“Listen, Jorge, we can’t continue like this,” she said. “I’m exhausted and I come home and see that you haven’t even done the bare minimum. And I know you’re grieving, but—”
Jorge held up a hand, calling her over. He motioned for her to look into the eyepiece. Teresa sighed, but complied. Through the ocular lens, she saw tiny particles, all different sizes, ranging in shades of black and brown, scattered like far-off galaxies in an unknown universe.
“What am I looking at?” Teresa asked.
Jorge stood back, hands on his hips. “That is life.”
Teresa stood up. There was a time when her husband’s mysterious ways had intrigued her. But somewhere along the way, the mystery morphed into a mindlessness that frustrated her to the core.
“That sample came from our land,” he said.
Teresa stared at him, blankly.
“I’m going to make dinner,” she said finally.
As she turned to leave, Jorge grabbed her left shoulder, which made her wince. “There’s a plant outside—a tiny plant with blue leaves. Did you see it?”
Teresa shrugged. She didn’t see that. What she could see now was an obsessed man. He was alive again, with eyes wild, his movements restless like a Siberian Husky shedding all over a plush rug. And while it may have been an evolution from the depressed ghost that haunted their residence this past month, she felt just as unsettled.
“I have no idea where it came from,” Jorge rambled on. “But who cares? It’s here, Teresa. It’s here on our land. Do you understand what that means? This could bring the whole ecosystem back to life!”
Teresa peeled Jorge’s hand off her. “I’m going to make dinner.”
As she headed out, Jorge hollered: “I called Carmen.”
Teresa froze on the threshold.
Jorge checked his phone for messages. “The order should be here within the hour.”
Teresa turned around, frowning. “Do you really want to take that risk right now?”
Jorge nodded, then returned to the microscope. Teresa rubbed her back again, observing from a distance as her husband buried himself in his work.
****
His face burned over the microscope. Jorge hated that look she gave him. That blank stare. Like the words he spoke didn’t belong in the same sentence. The same look la teacher gave him back in primaria, when he spelled “beautiful” as “beutirful.” His mother was the only person who thought he was smart. Unlike his wife, who was always questioning him, always sweeping away every germ of an idea like a crumb. But he would show her.
Jorge scurried to the closet and yanked down a tattered, brown box stuffed with manila folders. Pinning them to his chest with his chin, he waddled to the desk and dug through loose pages of notes, formulas, diagrams and crude drawings, searching for proof. Proof that his mother was right. Proof that this plant was, in fact, a miracle.
At half-past nine—and way past curfew—the dump trunk came roaring down the road. Jorge hurried outside. The driver waved, his face covered by a black bandanna. The lava-red metal gate, a drip painting of rust, squeaked as he propped it open to let the truck inside. It was a tight squeeze. The driver had to reverse to make the turn. The back-up beeper—the mating call of mechanical beasts—leapt across the vast landscape of yellow grass and cacti. Once inside, the beast tipped its bed till the dirt felt safe enough to scramble out, forming an umber pyramid.
The idle engine growl was too loud to yell over. Jorge held up three fingers. The driver, with his fingerless gloves, did the same, confirming the order. As the truck roared off, Jorge shielded his eyes from gusts of dust, then secured the gate and bolted back inside the house.
****
In the kitchen, Teresa filled six roasted peppers with seasoned rice, black beans and melted cheese. She coated each pepper evenly with a light batter before she placed them in a sizzling frying pan.
With papers in hand, Jorge burst into the room full of crackling sounds. “I think my mother did this.”
Teresa let his statement dissipate with the steam. Her relationship with renowned biochemist Dr. Thalia Ramirez had been complicated at best. She felt no desire to discuss anything related to her. She already had enough pain.
“Look at this. Look here.” Jorge thrust the files in front of her, flipping through pages. “This is what she was working on. Remember the formula she made to change pest behavior with pheromones? One of her last messages mentioned ‘unintended benefits.’ Instead of killing everything like chemical pesticides, her formula supports the soil’s microbiome due to a ‘symbiotic relationship’ with roots. See?” He held up a diagram. “She wrote down the benefits here: ‘suppresses methane, boosts bacteria and fungi, enhances nutrient uptake, strengthens soil structure.’ Do you understand? That’s our plant!”
While the peppers fried, Teresa prepared a tangy tomato sauce, mixing chopped tomatoes, minced garlic and freshly squeezed lime juice. “Do you know how dangerous it is to order soil without a SEMARNAT permit? And after curfew?”
Jorge frowned. “Are you even listening?”
Teresa prodded the peppers with a spatula.
“This is groundbreaking stuff,” he said, tapping the papers. “More than seventy-five percent of the planet’s soil is sterile. But if we’ve found a way to revitalize what was once dead, just think of the possibilities—”
“More than seventy-five percent of the planet’s soil is sterile. But if we’ve found a way to revitalize what was once dead, just think of the possibilities—”
“What if someone saw the truck and reported you?”
Jorge raised his arms. “We’re in the middle of goddamn nowhere!–”
The buzzer rang.
“More dirt?” Teresa asked.
Jorge checked the intercom screen: A hairy man in uniform stood at the gate. He looked up at the camera and flashed a wide smile.
****
The man introduced himself as Mr. Lopez, an inspector with the Secretaría de Medio Ambiente y Recursos Naturales.
“I received a call about a possible violation.” He stuck his hand in the pile of fresh dirt, rubbed a clump between his fingertips, sniffed it. “I felt compelled to do a little digging, so to speak.”
This dirt was old, Jorge explained. He just wanted to redistribute it.
“Hmm. Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” Mr. Lopez asked. “I’m parched.”
Carmen’s driver would be returning any moment. But Jorge knew refusing Mr. Lopez would only raise his suspicions. He nodded and led him inside.
While Teresa poured him some water, Jorge tried pinging Carmen from his glitchy watch (an old-gen hand-me-down from one of Teresa’s clients) to warn her driver to hold off. But the signal kept dropping.
Teresa handed Mr. Lopez the glass. “Would you like a chile relleno?”
Jorge looked up, horrified. Why would she offer that? What happened to the dangers of soil orders without a permit?
“As heavenly as it smells,” Mr. Lopez said, “I must decline. I’m on the clock.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Jorge said, ushering him to the door.
They were halfway to the gate when Mr. Lopez spotted the abandoned tractor in the field. And froze. Jorge’s stomach fell. Just like it had in primaria when la teacher caught him cheating on his dictation test.
“Uh, this way,” he blurted. But it was too late.
Mr. Lopez squinted. “Is that …?” He carefully approached the little plant with blue leaves, as if it were a mirage. He fell to his knees and covered his mouth, his eyes welling.
“Virgen de Guadalupe,” he whispered.
Jorge said nothing.
Mr. Lopez dug into the dirt, lifted it to his nose and took the deepest breath. “This is blessed soil right here.” He frowned. Then looked at the dirt mound, then at the plant, then at Jorge. “So you must be Adam.”
“Sorry?”
Mr. Lopez stood up. “I understand now. You needed fresh dirt to replicate this, but on a larger scale. To create your own little Garden of Eden.”
“What? No, that’s not—”
“This is what we can do. You pay me fifty-thousand pesos a week, you can make your oasis and I turn a blind eye.”
“This is blessed soil right here.” He frowned. Then looked at the dirt mound, then at the plant, then at Jorge. “So you must be Adam…I understand now. You needed fresh dirt to replicate this, but on a larger scale. To create your own little Garden of Eden.”
Jorge shook his head. “But there’s nothing to look away from. I’m a struggling farmer. Nothing illegal happens here.”
Right then, the dump truck came roaring down the road.
Mr. Lopez put a hand on Jorge’s shoulder. “Let’s see if my pockets agree with you.”
****
The floral plate dropped on the kitchen floor. The golden-brown stuffed peppers burst open, exposing their savory guts.
“Are you seriously that stupid?”
Jorge stood in the doorway, head down. He couldn’t even look at her.
“That …” Her throat locked up. “That was seed money for Nana Nano.”
“I had no choice. It was pay or we lose everything.”
“I have lost everything!”
Teresa buried her face in her hands. Jorge came closer, but she pulled away. She didn’t want him touching her or talking to her or anywhere near her.
“I know it looks bad right now,” Jorge said, “but you have to think of the possibilities. The microbiome. This could change everything, Teresa. Restoring nutrients, repairing soil, healing barren lands no one thought could come back! And it’s happening right here, on our land. We can save the planet. But salvation demands sacrifice. I believe in what we have. I do. And if I’m right, if this microbe can truly revitalize life, the possibilities are endless.” Jorge shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe we can even resurrect the dead.”
Teresa looked up, her eyes scalding. “That’s what this is about?!”
Jorge held up his hands in defense. “All I’m saying—”
“No, no, no, you listen to me,” Teresa said. “She is gone. You’re sad, I know. It hurts. But you’ve been hurting me for years, Jorge. This is our home. We don’t know how much time we have on Earth. You want to celebrate this microbe that has a, what, a ‘symbiotic relationship’ with roots, is it? But what about us? Where’s the symbiosis in this relationship? Because as I see it, you’re nothing more than a parasite.” Her voice wavered, cracking at the end. “Noble intentions or not, what is discovery without humanity?”
“Noble intentions or not, what is discovery without humanity?”
Jorge said nothing.
Teresa wiped her eyes and walked out. Jorge stood there, in the kitchen, staring at the now-unstuffed peppers. She returned and took the Nana Nano device from the shelf. She cradled it in her palms, as if willing it to wake up. But it was just a prototype, a fragile promise of what could have been. She set it back down. Then Teresa got on her knees and Jorge did the same and together, they cleaned up the mess.
Stay tuned…
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