María glowered at her, and for a terrifying moment Patricia feared she might throw Salma across the room. But then she held the infant out at arm’s length, gripping her by the wrist as if she were nothing but a doll.

Salma woke and began to cry.

Patricia snatched the baby quickly and cradled her tightly against her chest, staring over her head at María with frightened eyes.

3

Patricia didn’t know what those nuns did to María, but the eight-year-old girl who had been living in her home for the last three days was not her daughter—or at least not the daughter she had once been. She was a stranger. A violent, angry stranger. Patricia felt she was walking on eggshells whenever she was in the same room with her, worried about saying something or doing something that would set her off. María had already had several temper tantrums. The worst occurred earlier that morning when Patricia found her in the kitchen, carving up a heel of cheese. Afterward she placed the dirty knife back in the knife block. Patricia explained she had to wash the knife otherwise someone could get sick. María responded by throwing the knife block against the floor and going around the house shouting and slamming doors. Patricia had been so terrified—for both herself and Salma—she quickly collected the baby and went down the street to her girlfriends’, remaining there until her husband Diego returned from work. By then María had calmed down and was curled up in her bed (they had left her bedroom untouched in her absence), staring at the wall.

Presently Patricia sat in the living room, rocking Salma in her arms. Diego sat in a chair across from her, still in his construction clothes, a beer in his hand.

“Saint Agatha’s was supposed to help her,” she said softly.

“It didn’t help her,” Diego grumbled. He sipped his beer and wiped foam from his mustache with the back of his hand.

“At least before she would listen. Now…now nothing gets through to her.”

“She doesn’t listen,” he agreed.

“When she threw the knives, all I could think was…”

“What if Salma was in the kitchen, playing on the floor?”

Patricia nodded. “I’m scared, Diego,” she admitted. “When María was younger, when she had her temper tantrums, they were almost cute. But they’re not cute anymore. And what of when she’s older? When she’s fifteen, or twenty, or thirty? Will she still be having temper tantrums? What will people think? They won’t understand.”

“That’s a long way away, dear.”