—It’s too late to think, Miraluz said. To think, to ask too many questions, would make it all too confusing, make a person way too sympathetic with the enemy.

—But people don’t know what they’re fighting for, Don Chan told Miraluz in dismay. The people were angry with their bosses, at the gasoline prices. They wanted a sure meal, a good roof over their heads, and access to good doctors and education. Women waved their babies outside their windows to discourage bombing. Everyone with a gripe was letting off steam on the streets. The poor were vandalizing, betrayed lovers were venting on merchants. Couples were fucking to prevent the extinction of the Dominican people. Don Chan wanted it to stop. But it was too late. To stop would make the deaths of many a waste. To continue meant that more would die without any certainty of freedom.

—We might not win this war, said Miraluz—but like my great-grandfather told me when he was still alive, if the Yanquis plan to take us over, they won’t be able to do it without seeing some blood.

Don Chan stood on guard by the door. Miraluz stood close by him. They were on duty to guard the stockpiled ammunition. And to care for the wounded who were too weak to return to their houses. Santo was standing by Esperanza’s window.

—He’s asking for trouble, Miraluz said, disappointed by Santo’s weakness with his heart. Don Chan wasn’t weak. Miraluz pulled her body close to him, pressing herself slightly behind him. He hadn’t bathed in days because there had been no water since the day the marines landed. He reeked of cigars, earth, damp leaves, and fresh meat.

A truck pulled up in front of Esperanza’s house. Two men approached Santo.

—What the fuck is that boy doing? Don Chan said.

Miraluz picked up her gun from the floor.

Don Chan held her back.

—No, wait. Santo could talk his way out of it, Don Chan said. —Better not to expose ourselves unless necessary.

Don Chan checked for his gun. It was loaded. He had yet to use it. He refused to use it. Just carrying it around felt like too much power for a man. He would feel better if each and every gun around the world was destroyed. Why couldn’t they return to the days when men fought with fists and knives? The killing was slower that way. The destruction reparable. Fighting with one’s hand allowed more time for negotiation, for regret, for sorrow, for loss. But the gun was too fast for the spirit.

The men patted down Santo’s body. He was taken inside the house. Miraluz and Don Chan waited by the door of the clinic.

—What do we do? Miraluz was ready to break into the house to save Santo.

Don Chan held her back and waited until one of the men walked out of the small house made of cement. It was the man with alligator skin.

—It’s him, Miraluz said, pulling on Don Chan’s arm.