“We’re going to have a picnic first,” her mother replied.

“I said I want to go swimming!”

“After we eat, sweetheart. Then you can go swimming. Is that okay?”

María faced forward again. She heard her parents talking behind her, but she ignored them. She said to Angela, “We can go swimming after we eat.”

“Okay.”

2

A short time later María’s father steered the trajinera through weedy water until it bumped against the bank of an island. He got out and held the gondola steady as María climbed onto land first, then her mother. They went a short way inland until they found a patch of soft ground beneath a big tree. María’s mother set down a serape for them to sit on. It was woven in shades of gray and black and had fringes at the ends. Her mother owned all sorts of these blanket-like shawls, and she used them for everything: bedspreads, sofa covers, car seat covers. There was even one hanging on the wall in the living room, next to the picture of the Virgin Mary. Before María went to Saint Agatha’s School for Lost Children, she had loved all of them. They made her feel safe and special when she was curled up in one. Now, however, the serape on the ground meant nothing to her. In fact, if anything, it angered her. Everything seemed to anger her recently.

Except Angela.

“You’re my best friend, Angela,” she said in her silent voice.

“You’re my best friend too.”

“I’m never going to let someone take you again.”

María’s father and mother began unpacking the picnic basket they’d brought, setting the food on the ground: watermelon slices, tortas, nachos with avocado salsa, pickled potatoes, white-powdered cookies, candied pecans, and a big bottle of lemonade. María was hungry and stuffed herself until her belly ached. Afterward her mother asked María if she could brush her hair. María always used to like when her mother brushed her hair—when it had been long and thick—so she said yes. While brushing it, her mother began to sing a lullaby under her breath. It was one she had often sung to María when she was younger.

María closed her eyes, enjoying the warm sun on her face and the brush’s bristles tickling her scalp and her mother singing in her soft, beautiful voice, and although she wasn’t aware of it, she was smiling for the first time in a long, long while.

3

The water felt cold on María’s bare feet and ankles, even though it was summer. Nevertheless, she waded farther into the canal, gripping Angela in her hand. The water rose to her knees. The rocks beneath her feet turned smooth and slimy, and she had to be careful not to slip.