“We’ve decided to say yes to your wish,” Anna said, her hand resting on Paco’s shoulder as he did his work. “He’ll live with us. From now on, he’ll be our son.”

I turned to him, scooped him in my arms, and kissed him.

He looked abashed, crestfallen. “I wish you were my mother. I still wish it.”

“You love Anna, I know you do.”

“But I love you best.” He patted his salve-sticky hands at the peach-fuzz growth on my scalp. “I’ll grow to be a great man, and you’ll come back for me.”

“You’ll grow to be a great man, and always keep me in your heart, Paco, promise? Just like you’ll always be in mine.”

“Okay,” he said, embracing me before returning to the bag of poultice. “Okay.”

The next morning, as I gathered Omar to bathe him in a freshly boiled and cooled pot of water, Doña Antonia gruffly set down a plate of meat on a stool next to me. She sat on a neighboring one, grimacing as if her joints pained her, shoulders slumped. In the bitter set of her mouth and eyes I read her grief for her favorite son, the one who was supposed to save Ayachero.

“He’s the only one who cared for me, you know. Really cared for me. He always sent me anything he could spare. Money, food, supplies.”

“I’m sorry.”

Omar yawned, never opening his eyes, his tiny toothless mouth pink and sweet.

“You’re going to take my only grandson away to America?”

“Everyone’s been so kind to me here, but my home was with Omar.” The truth of that statement gutted me, as did the irony that I would be taking Omar’s child from his only other family: grandmother, aunt, uncles, cousins.

“People shoot each other for nothing in your country. I’ve heard of great storms that kill thousands. Ice everywhere. I’m afraid he’ll die there.”

“I’ll protect him, I swear. He’ll have the best life I can give him.”

“All right,” she said, giving me a nod. “As long as you can promise me that.” She pushed herself to her feet and cleared away a few empty plates. “Welcome to this loco world, baby Omar.”

She turned away, seemed to struggle with some decision, then pivoted back to me. “I should have been nicer to you. Now it’s too late—”

“It’s okay. I learned a lot from you.”

She pulled her favorite knife from the folds of her apron, blunt handled, chipped and dull. It had seemed part of her hand whenever she used it. “You can use this to clean the animals in Boston, now that you’ve become so good at it, okay?”

“But this is your best knife—”

“It’s just a knife. For God’s Sake will bring me another when he comes back.” Without another word, she picked up the pot of dirty dishes and brought it downstairs so the rain could wash the plates clean.

The rest of my goodbyes took all morning. People surprised me with their warmth; some were tearful, and soon I was, too. Each farewell gift moved me in its own way: Franz’s jaguar-tooth necklace Omar had made for him when they were children; Panchito’s little flask of pisco “for the flight home”; the Frannies’ heartfelt hugs and benedictions; Anna’s set of three smaller-to-larger calabashes carved with beautiful images of anaconda, pink dolphin, and jaguar. She told me all the women had had a hand in making them, all sent their best wishes.