And when her stomach was empty, unlike her neighbors back home who spent afternoons in their patios waiting for the electricity to come back on, embellishing stories about absent neighbors, with the air always smelling of sweat, rum, and frankincense, Esperanza had her eye on more glamorous things, like champagne glasses, and low-cut dresses, weekly visits to the salon, and using words like buying, selling, profit, inheritance. She knew that the rich only made the rich richer and the poor were doomed by association.

You‘ve got to take chances in life, if you want to make anything of it, Cliff Barnes told his sister Pamela Ewing one night, and Esperanza watched la Loca‘s TV as if she had just been touched by gospel.

In desperation, behind Santo‘s back, Esperanza saved up penny by penny for her trip to Dallas. She skimped on the sugar in his coffee and reduced the portions of bacalao served at dinner.

—Where‘s the meat, woman? You trying to starve me?

—Cariño, eat more rice to fill yourself. It‘s not my problem that your appetite has grown.

The day Esperanza counted enough money in her nylon stocking buried in the top drawer of her bureau, she made her way to the small town of Los Desesperados, where the yolas dispatched, a town that was once no more than a dirt road and a few shacks, until word got around that it was the closest way to launch out to Puerto Rico without getting caught by the coastal guards. In no time, the few shacks transformed into makeshift colmados, carrying last-minute necessities to take to the States and efficient motels for lovers to bid their last farewells. Soon, local entrepreneurs found a way to make good money off the secret port. Literates became letter writers, so campesinos could send word to their loved ones. Last wishes were sealed in bottles, then buried in the sand. Beggars, priests, and prostitutes made themselves available to feed last urges, just in case death awaited the brave passengers who dared to cross the ravenous Mona Passage, filled with sharks and angry waves.

Esperanza hid out in the bushes, fending off mosquitoes, befriending the other passengers who shared their food with her: crackers, salchichón, Malta Morena. No one whispered words of fear. They knew there was no turning back. All seventy-eight travelers took the journey into the unknown. Back then, the yola trips were less frequent, the raftsmen had little experience, few had lived and returned to tell the story. Esperanza didn‘t think about how her departure would make Santo feel, or that she might never see her son again. She looked at the horizon, a thin line of midnight that divided the sky and sea.

Querido Santo,

I left for Puerto Rico. As soon as I can, I will send word.

Pray for me, Santo.

Te amo,

Esperanza

Santo had walked into his two-room house to find that Esperanza was gone. Quickly, he ran to Don Chan‘s.

—Y qué pasó con esa mujer? She‘s gone.