Don Benito returned the next day. And the next. And the next as well.
He fixed leaks, unclogged the well, and erected a wooden structure with a tarp to cover the tables. Dalia cleaned flowerbeds, planted cilantro, chilies, epazote, and whatever else she could reach, while sweat ran down her back. It was he who, one afternoon, stared at a plant growing tall among the weeds and murmured:
—Don’t pick that one. It’s wild basil. Don Ceferino cared for it like it was gold.
Dalia cut a twig and put it to her nose.
The smell stopped her.
It was unlike anything she had ever used before. It was deep, sweet without being cloying, fresh and smoky at the same time, as if damp earth could be transformed into perfume. She didn’t yet know what that aroma meant, but she transplanted the seedlings with the care of someone moving something precious, even if they don’t yet know its value.
It didn’t have a nice sign or a name yet. Just a piece of cardboard tacked to the side of the road with four cymbals written on it with a marker.
Nobody stopped for the first two days.
The third one, at the end of the afternoon, a pickup truck slowed down, advanced a few more meters, stopped on the shoulder and reversed.
The driver got out, read the sign, and went inside.
His name was Eustaquio Méndez, he was in his forties and came from Zacatecas. He sat down like someone sitting in a place from which he doesn’t expect much, ordered chicken in sauce, rice and beans, and remained silent while Dalia cooked.
She used some of that wild basil in the sauce.
Eustace ate slowly. He didn’t make a single gesture during the meal. When he finished, he put down his utensil, went out to his truck, came back, and asked:
—What did you put on this?
—About the vegetable garden —Dalia replied.
He looked at her for a second.
—I’ve never tried anything like this in my life.
He paid, wrote down the phone number on the poster, and left.
Three days later he returned. He wasn’t alone. Two other trucks were parked behind his.
One of the men, Josivaldo, passing by on the road, ate in silence and at the end said, looking at the empty plate:
—It tastes like home… and I don’t even know how to explain that.
The following week there were five trucks. Then seven. After that, farmworkers from the nearby fields began to arrive, men who used to bring packed lunches but now made a detour to eat there. Dalia still didn’t fully understand what was happening. She only knew that the silence had turned into movement.
That’s when Doña Valentina started looking towards the road.
First she asked how many vehicles there were. Then she wanted to know the price of the dishes. When they told her that Dalia charged more than she did, she remained silent for too long. The explanation about the low price no longer worked.
In December, Dalia gave birth to a girl.
She called her Ana Lucía.
The birth took place at the village hospital. Don Benito waited outside for six hours, sitting in a plastic chair with his hat in his lap, until a nurse came out to say that everything was fine. He was the first to hold the baby after her mother. His rough hands seemed too big for such a tiny creature, but he held her with a gentleness that changed her expression.
For two weeks the ranch was closed. Don Benito watered the vegetable garden, fed the chickens, and left a note stuck over the highway sign:
“We’ll be back in January. Thank you for waiting.”
When Dalia left the hospital and read the notes some truckers had left next to the sign—a box of condensed milk, an envelope with advance payment, a “we’re still here”—she understood that the place hadn’t just begun to exist. Someone already needed it.
In January it opened with a name hand-painted by Don Benito on a wooden board:
Hope Site.
The sign was a little crooked on the left side. Dalia decided to leave it like that.
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