Armando was twenty-four and already tired in a way that made him seem older.

He worked on a farm outside Hermosillo, where the days were mostly heat, dust, and the same rows of crops he had been looking at for years. His hands were cracked from the work. By noon, his shirt was usually soaked through.

His father had been killed when Armando was younger, leaving him the oldest of four. Nobody sat him down and told him he was responsible for the family now. It just happened. There were bills. There was food to buy. His younger brothers and sisters needed things. So Armando worked.

The farm paid enough to keep everybody going and not much else.

At night, he played music.

He kept an old guitar in his room, along with a couple of other instruments that had seen better days. He wrote songs when he couldn't sleep. He wasn't famous. He wasn't even particularly close to becoming famous. But he believed, maybe a little foolishly, that he could eventually get out of the fields.

Then he met Maria.

She liked his songs. More importantly, she liked listening to him talk about them. Around her, Armando started making plans instead of excuses. He talked about leaving town. Playing somewhere bigger. Getting a better guitar. He even started saving a little money.

Most evenings, after work, he rode his bicycle into town to see her.

One night, he was on his way there when a pickup came around a blind curve too fast.

The driver didn't see him until it was too late.

Armando never made it to Maria's house.

She waited for him that night. At first she was annoyed. Then worried. Then someone came to tell her what happened.

His bicycle was found a short distance from the road.

That was it.

His family buried him. His brothers and sisters lost the person who had been keeping things together. Maria lost someone she had only just begun imagining a future with.

His guitar stayed in his room.

The songs were still there too.

Nobody ever heard most of them.