—And what do I have to do with it?

Miraluz walked away. Don Chan followed her. She shook her hips because she felt his stare.

—You’re one of the few in Los Llanos who knows how to read and write. We need you.

—I told you, I’ve no time to make a man with alabaster hands more powerful.

Miraluz hung the washed pieces on the line by her house. The sun poured over them. Her dress, drenched in river water, clung to her skin. Don Chan tried to help her. She looked over at him and lifted her chin. She stretched her lips to one side of her face in suspicion, biting her bottom lip, attempting to disguise her joy at his visit. He needed her. Why did it take him so long to figure that out? Besides, even if Don Chan was wrong about Bosch, she had always wanted to go to la capital and see for herself the energy of the city.

—I’ll come. But you can’t tell me what to do.

—Fine, Don Chan said. —As long as you don’t put anyone in danger, you can do as you please.

—Will we bring the weapons we found?

—Yes, just in case. I hope we don’t need them.

—And I don’t want to be treated like a woman. I want you to treat me the way you treat Santo or any other man.

—As you wish.

Miraluz wiped her hands with her dress. She tucked the wisp of hair flying into her eyes behind her ear, and reached out to shake his hand.

—Very well then. We leave at the end of the week. Don Chan held her hand for a long while. Almost four years had passed since he had first met Miraluz. So much had happened in that time: Trujillo’s death, Bosch’s win, Los Llanos’s independence. And now they were witnessing its fall unless they did something to change it. The laundry flapped against him. He moved away from it and held on to her hand. Her body moved toward him for an embrace. He held her. Felt her breasts press against him. He gently combed his fingers through her hair and placed her head against his chest for fear of what might happen between them. Señora María Magdalena’s call for Miraluz from inside the house broke their trance. Miraluz unfolded herself from his arms and pressed her lips together, acknowledging that they shared a secret.

STO. Domingo Libre 0.km

Ciudad Trujillo

Sign posted on the border exiting Santo Domingo, 1965

In April 1965, before the U.S. occupation, Esperanza had first noticed Santo from the windows of her house. He was stationed over at the clinic by the Ozama River.

—Get away from there, you’ll get hurt, her father said, angry that after all the progress the city had made under Trujillo’s regime, it was now being destroyed. Newly constructed buildings were riddled with bullet holes.