The Garage That Isn’t There

@jimena

The call comes in just past nine: a stolen trumpet, a mariachi in tears on the sidewalk outside his taquería. Officer Cruz Barragán steers the patrol car through Colonia Americana with the window cracked, jaw set — the shift has been hers since the academy, and tonight it finally counts for something. The address the weeping trumpet player gives leads to a rolled-down garage door on a street that shouldn’t have one, and the man who answers it greets her by her brother’s name. Her hand is already on her holster when she whispers the words.