Maria was a devout follower and had dedicated herself to Christ since Vincente’s father had been killed in the war four years before. There was no local school, so the church was the only place where he could be educated.

It was located at the top of the hill in the center of town, and Father Cardozo presided over the congregation. He was a young man, and handsome. Vincente occasionally wondered whether his mother’s devotion to the church was in part driven by the fact that she was drawn to the charismatic priest. It wouldn’t have bothered Vincente if a relationship developed between Father Cardozo and his mother. He could certainly understand—in his eyes she was the most beautiful woman that he could imagine. Who wouldn’t be tempted? And the priest was already the closest thing he had to a father figure.

“Vincente,” Father Cardozo said one day after Mass.

“Yes, Father,” he replied automatically.

“How would you like to help put away the vestments today?”

“Yes, Father.” Vincente knew that it was considered an honor to help Father Cardozo with the instruments of the faith, but truth be told, he would rather have had the opportunity to go outside and play with his friends. Jorge had found an old, beaten football in the local woods, and for once they would have a real ball to kick around during their weekly game. He obeyed anyway.

“Someday, my son, you may be an altar boy,” Father Cardozo said. “Would you like that?”

“Yes, Father,” the boy replied. He knew Father Cardozo was being kind. All Vincente could think about, though, was the delight in kicking an actual ball.

“Take this back to the cabinet, behind the altar.”

He did as he was told. He could hear the small congregation chatting with the priest out in the church as he worked to put the vestments carefully away, as he’d been taught. His mother’s voice rose above them, like a songbird’s melody tickling his ears. He loved his mother’s voice. He loved everything about her. She was his world.

The commotion started outside in the courtyard. There was shouting, and then a woman screamed. That was followed by the report of automatic gunfire and more screaming. Vincente was terrified. He’d heard the sound of gunfire before, but never so close. It was always in the hills, far off. Vincente, who had not been alive the last time the war had intruded upon the small town, could not imagine that the violence could really happen here. He’d always thought of his town as a safe haven.

He heard the shouting move into the church, and he poked his head around the corner of the church’s little back room, where the vestments were kept.