Chapter One: Mexico City CHAPTER ONE MEXICO CITY
I totally have no idea where I am.

I wipe the sweat off my brow and look around at the busy intersection in front of me. The high yellow curbs, the green metal benches, the big gold statue of an angel in the center of the roundabout, and… I am lost in the middle of Mexico City.

Tears well in my eyes and create a blurry mess of the traffic lights and honking cars, but I blink them back. Don’t be a baby about this, Diego. I take a deep breath and try to focus, but the screaming itch under the blue cast on my arm is making it impossible to think. Having a broken arm is so annoying. And having a broken arm while lost in the middle of a hot, crowded city is even more annoying.

I don’t even have a cool story to go with it. I wasn’t doing anything heroic or manly. I slipped stepping out of the shower. I took one itty-bitty step and my toes said, “Yippee, we’re sliding!” and took the rest of my body with them. My arm didn’t stand a chance against the hard toilet and snapped like a twig over Batman’s knee.

When I told Dad, he simply shook his head at me. Like he wasn’t surprised. I’m glad he wasn’t the one home when it actually happened. I wouldn’t want him to know how much I cried. Which was a lot. He always goes on about how I need to toughen up and how Mom has made me too soft. And maybe she has, I don’t know, but I’m trying hard not to be, if that means they’ll stop fighting about it so much.

Except now that I’m in Mexico City, everything’s only gotten worse with my tía Maria fussing over me like I’m some little kid. Diego, mijo, move your deditos. We don’t want your arm to get stiff, she’ll say, while bringing me another ice pack I don’t need. Then there’s my tío Tony, who reminds me every five seconds to keep the cotton lining of my cast dry, because you don’t want a skin infection. I mean, jeez, it’s not like I’m sweating under it on purpose. I can’t help it that there’s no AC in most buildings and that the space under my cast has become its own smelly tropical biome.

Worst of all, I have like zero privacy. The room I’m staying in connects to the living area and doesn’t have a door, only a wood beaded curtain. So I can’t even sleep in, because every morning at six a.m. my tío Tony flips on the TV and the sounds of Univision flood my room. Not to mention my room smells like everything that gets cooked in the kitchen. (Don’t get me wrong, both my tío and tía are great cooks, but I don’t want my bed to smell like yesterday’s chicken enchiladas.) Even my tíos’ big, old, smelly hound dog, Flaco, waltzes into my room whenever he wants. I just really miss my room back home in Texas. I miss my cozy bedsheets, the constellation of stickers on my dresser, my display of LEGO builds, my rock collection, my friends….

I wish my life could go back to the way it was.

Ugh, I feel my eyes tearing up again. Get a grip, Diego. None of that matters right now when I’m lost in the middle of one of the busiest cities on earth. Dad’s right, I need to toughen up.

I sit down on a green metal bench—like a normal person on a walk, not like someone who is lost. I take out my phone, which Tía Maria has told me many times not to take out in public so I don’t get mugged, and open my maps app.

I know I can call my tíos, but I want to figure this out on my own (plus I don’t want Tía Maria to explode with worry when she finds out where I am). The problem is I don’t actually know the full address for my tíos’ house, only the name of the street. That might be enough. I type the street name into my phone and see that I’m about three blocks from the correct road, but the road itself is a few miles long. So I could be five minutes or an hour away from home, and I am not really sure which direction is right. Sigh. I am going to have to ask someone for help.

“Elote! Elote!” A man with a pushcart full of corn yells from across the busy street to the people passing him on foot and on bicycles. I could ask him for help, but then he might expect me to buy something.

A wide tour bus with a loudspeaker drowns the corn man out as it lumbers by playing dance music. A plume of exhaust stings my nose, and somewhere another salesperson rings a bell over and over. The noise and the heat are starting to get to me, and sweat builds on my brow while I try to focus.

On my side of the street, near the bench I’m sitting on, a storefront window glows with a strange yellow light. The light radiates onto the faces of the many people walking by, but they don’t seem to notice or care. The faded green sign out front says ANTIGüEDADES. It’s an antique shop. Through the window, an old woman at the cash register turns her head in my direction. Her dark eyes crease at the edges and somehow, across the crowd, lock onto my own. She waves at me.

Unsure what to do, I wave back.

A loud car horn blares behind me, and suddenly the only place I want to be is inside that store and away from all this noise. My feet are moving toward the door before I can even think about it.

A tinkling bell dings over my head as I push the door open and walk in. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim orangey-yellow light of the store, but once they do and I get a good look at where I am, it feels like I’m unsealing a dusty time capsule. The shelves are crowded—full of knickknacks, glass ashtrays, metal toys, and many other forgotten secondhand items. Even the walls are covered with old objects: faded posters, vintage dresses, a corded Garfield phone, and basically anything else that doesn’t fit on a shelf. Above me, a large felt puppet is suspended from the ceiling next to a marionette with its jaw hanging slack.

The space is so overwhelming, I instantly forget what I came in here for. My eyes bounce around the crowded room—from glass balloons to a deer skull—before finally resting on a familiar-looking rag doll on a nearby shelf.

The doll looks exactly like my old childhood lovey, Chacho. I used to bring him with me everywhere. He had dark hair, a round, smiling face, and green button eyes, and Mom would say he looked just like me. He’s in all my toddler pics, clutched tight in my chubby hands, his red overalls worn thin from being thrown in the washer so many times. Dad hated him, of course—he’d hide Chacho away somewhere in the house and pretend he had no idea where the doll was when Mom would ask. But I’d always find him. I always knew where Chacho was.

Man, I haven’t thought of him in ages. What happened to him even? I pick the doll up for a closer look, and then a voice behind me makes me jump.

“Bienvenido.” It’s the old woman who waved at me from the window. Her curly white hair sticks up in all directions, and she’s smiling at me in a large, unsettling way—all teeth and no warmth. “I’m Abuela Ximena. How can I help you?”

“Uh, well, I’m not really looking for anything to buy,” I say, trying to step back but bumping into the doll shelf instead. “I’m just a little lost.”

The strange woman swoops her arms around me and pulls me into an unexpected hug. The smell of her perfume is so strong and flowery, I have to fight the urge to sneeze. “¡Pobrecito perdido!” Her large plastic bracelets clank against my back. “Let’s get you home, mijo.”

I realize I’m still holding the old rag doll as Abuela Ximena guides me through the crowded rows of antiques and over to the glass counter. I put the soft doll down on the counter and explain my problem and about not knowing my tíos’ house number. “I see, I see,” she says, tucking a loose white curl behind her ear. “Well, perhaps you can walk back to your school instead of your house and then call your tíos to meet you there.”

“That’s a great idea!” I quickly start typing the school’s name into Google.

“Oh, La Escuela Primaria Matilde Montoya,” she says, leaning over me. “It’s nearly time for their annual field trip, isn’t it?”

“Um, I wouldn’t know. I just moved here.” I pull my phone back to my chest protectively. She may be an old woman, but stranger danger is still a thing.

“My grandson goes there,” she explains with a grin. “He’s very excited to find out where you all will be going this year. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, tucking my phone into my pocket. Unsure of how to change the subject, I start nervously picking at the red overalls on the Chacho look-alike that is still lying on the counter.

“You know,” Abuela Ximena says, nodding her head at the doll, “if you like that one, I can give you half off.”

Embarrassed, I quickly push the rag doll away. “No, thanks. Dolls aren’t really my thing.”

She watches me for a moment, and for whatever reason, I feel like I need to hold my breath as she breaks out into another slow, cold smile. “That’s a shame. You know, it is rumored that this year’s field trip might be to La Isla de las Muñecas, or Doll Island, as some tourists call it.”

I’ve heard of the place—Doll Island, or the Island of the Dolls, or whatever the travel blogs call it. Supposedly, the spooky island is filled with old dolls and is super haunted. To me, it seems like the type of cringe thing made popular by YouTubers looking to create content.

I shake my head and scrunch my eyebrows together. “I’m not into creepy dolls either.”

“You know, it’s not all creepy dolls,” Abuela Ximena says, wrapping her long fingers around my unbroken arm. Startled by her cold touch, I feel every muscle tense, and all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when she speaks. “Legend has it there is a special doll hidden on the island that will grant wishes to whoever finds it.” Her eyes go wide. “Any wish at all.”

“A magic doll?” Seems fake. I try to pull my arm free from her clammy hand, but her grip is surprisingly strong. She doesn’t even seem bothered that I’m trying to pull free. My heart starts racing. Gulp. Am I actually in a stranger-danger scenario right now?

Her fingers feel tight around my arm. “Yes, a magic doll. That is why there are so many other dolls all over the island—to keep people from finding the true Wish Doll.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side curiously. Her pose looks exactly like the marionette hanging in the corner. “What would you wish for if you found her?”

The question makes me forget that she still has a vise grip on my arm.

I would wish myself out of this itchy cast, for starters, then out of Mexico City.

I would wish my parents back together, and for them not to fight all the time.

I would wish for Texas and my own room and infinite Ocean Waters at Sonic with Mom. Gosh, I really miss that fizzy, coconut-flavored blue drink.

If a magical wish-granting doll really, truly exists… I could change everything.

“What does the doll look like?” I ask. Abuela Ximena smiles and finally releases my arm.

Turning away from me, she reaches to a shelf full of delicate-looking old dolls behind her and brings down a small one in a white lacy dress. Two long dark braids frame the doll’s cracked, smiling, rosy face. “She would look a lot like this composition doll made with sawdust and glue. But there would be a tell, a sign that she is special.”

“Like what?” I ask. “A glowing hand or something?”

“Yes, something like that. You would have to find her yourself to see.”

I touch the lace of the doll’s white dress and think. Could I find a doll like this by myself? I mean, I already am doing everything out here in Mexico City on my own. Why not this, too?

The old lady, Abuela Ximena, nods like she can read my thoughts. “The trouble is the doll can’t be found on La Isla de las Muñecas. That island is only a gimmick set up for tourists. The real Doll Island is farther out of the way.”

“Does anyone ever go to the real island?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiles so widely, I can see pink lipstick stains on her yellow teeth. “The caretaker of the island, Don Jaime, boats back and forth from the mainland all the time. Anyone can spot his trajinera, as it is the only one covered in dolls.”

“Interesting…” I nod as the gears in my brain start spinning.

Abuela Ximena crosses her arms suddenly. “Ah, I really shouldn’t be telling a child all this, but it’s not like you’ll try anything silly like leaving your field trip behind, right?”

“Oh, no, never,” I reply, shaking my head even though I’m already formulating a plan to find that Wish Doll. I’d try anything to get my old life back. “It probably doesn’t even matter—they haven’t announced where our field trip will be yet. It might be to somewhere else entirely.”

“Right, of course.” Abuela Ximena’s smiling face blinks back at me, and I suddenly get a chill. Something about the way her dark eyes are staring at me without breaking eye contact is filling me with dread. All at once the amount of clutter between me and the exit makes me feel uneasy, like a fly in a spiderweb.

“I—I should get going.” I step toward the door. “I don’t want my tía Maria to worry.”

“Yes, naturally,” Abuela Ximena says, walking closer to my side of the counter. “Good luck, and have fun on your field trip.”

“I will. Thanks again for your help,” I say, pushing my way through the clutter to the door.

“Oh, one last thing, Diego,” she says, suddenly standing directly next to me. She shoves the old composition doll into my hands. “It’s yours for free. To inspire you to always follow your heart’s desires.”

“Okay… thanks.” I clutch the doll and stumble out of the shop. Back on the sidewalk, I heave a sigh of relief. Only outside do I start feeling like I can breathe normally and relax. I shake my unbroken arm out, the one that Abuela Ximena held on to for so long. What a weird lady.

And what a weirder doll. Even in the bright sunlight, it gives me the willies. What did she say it was made of? Sawdust and glue? It definitely looks like it with its lumpy, chipped skin exposed in the sun. I can’t imagine this doll ever looked anything but creepy, even when it was brand-new.

A cyclist on a bright yellow bicycle zooms past me and nearly knocks me over, pulling my attention away from the doll. I better get myself home. Embarrassed, I shove the frilly doll into my backpack and concentrate on the open map on my phone. I can do this. I’m going to find my way back to my school by myself, exactly like I’ll find my way to the true Doll Island and that Wish Doll.

It’s only as I’m walking down the crowded street half a mile away from the weird store that I realize it: Abuela Ximena used my name as I was leaving.

How did she know my name?