A long time passed, and just as María was beginning to forget what she was doing on the floor, she heard the door to the dormitory open. Footsteps approached. The sheet was torn away.

Scowling down at her, Sister Vallín said, “The one thing God despises more than a filthy little girl is a filthy little liar.” She raised her cane.

“Don’t—”

The cane struck María on the side of her head. Stars exploded across her vision, and she was already spinning into unconsciousness as the nun struck her again and again and again.

3

María came around in a bed in a room she didn’t recognize. Vivid light shone through the tall, arched windows, making her squint. Vaguely, she made out Sister Vallín and Father Pardavé. They were standing by some metal filing cabinets, speaking to each other. They seemed somehow very far away, and she could only catch snippets of their conversation:

“…becoming difficult…deceitful…”

“…mentally deficient…”

“...fits…dazed, unresponsive…”

“…God’s mistake…”

“…no friends…Laura…”

“…equally unfortunate…”

“…her disobedience…aggression…”

“…American doctor…operation…very successful…”

María could no longer keep her eyelids open, they fluttered and shut, and then there was nothing but darkness once again.

Elizaveta

1

Lucinda’s bedroom was furnished with a small, plain dresser and an iron-framed twin bed. A candle sat on the dresser, the stout yellow flame staving off the encroaching darkness. Nitro had hung Pepper’s purple blazer from a hook on the wall to dry. Lucinda lay on the bed on her side, a ratty red sheet pulled to her chin.

“How is she doing?” Elizaveta asked, moving next to Nitro, who remained bare-chested, not an ounce of fat on him. She studied Lucinda. The woman’s eyes were closed, her face gaunt and insipid. Her breathing had developed a burr, a phlegmy rasp, as though she had been a two-packs-a-day smoker for twenty years.

Nitro shrugged. “We need to keep her warm. But there’re no covers, nothing, only these sheets.”

Elizaveta looked at the dresser.

“Empty,” he said, “except some socks and underwear.”

“Where are Solano’s clothes?”

“He was a hermit. He probably only had one outfit.”

“What about the wound in her back?”

“Bleeding’s stopped. Not much more we can do.”

She raised the bucket. “Can she drink water?”

“Not while she’s unconscious.”

Elizaveta frowned, frustrated. She wanted to help, but there was nothing for her to do. She looked around the room for something warm, for something Nitro might have missed. Her eyes fell on his backpack. He’d taken it off and set it on the floor against the wall.

She recalled the way he had acted when Jack caught him with the pistol in his hand: surprised, guilty. How he’d quickly stuffed it away.

Why hadn’t he told them he had it earlier? What was the big secret? It wasn’t like they’d turn him in.