—Yes, he crooned along with her. —Yes, he said as he collapsed into her and fell into a long-awaited sleep.

Esperanza stopped in San Pedro to pick up Don Chan and Bobby. She, Dallas, and Consuelo all piled out of the car. Consuelo squealed when she saw them.

—Was she crying a lot? I missed you, little one, Bobby said while Miraluz watched him. Her hair was wet from a shower, her skin glowing, her smile stretched from ear to ear as she watched Bobby extend his arms with Consuelo in them, spinning her around in front of Miraluz’s house.

—What took you so long? Don Chan said. He had been up before the roosters, anxious to arrive in Los Llanos. Doña Caridad was waiting for him.

Esperanza greeted Miraluz out of decency but pulled away in haste to hide in the car. Every time Esperanza looked at her, she became angry all over again. She knew about her affection for Santo.

—Can I hold her? Miraluz said, extending her arms. —Qué bella es!

Consuelo grabbed Miraluz’s necklace with her name on it.

—It’s getting late, Esperanza said. —We don’t have all day.

When Bobby tried to take Consuelo back, the baby cried. —I’m so sorry, she never acts this way.

—You’re a wild spirit, aren’t you? Miraluz said.

—Maybe she’s hungry? Dallas said.

—But she just finished eating, Esperanza said. —Put her in the car and she’ll shut up when she feels the car moving.

She didn’t care to be around Miraluz one minute longer.

Don Chan was amazed by the sunlight falling on the blades of the palm leaves, the gleam off Dallas’s earrings, the glimmer on the hood of the car. Light was bouncing off everything.

—Miraluz, ven con nosotros, Don Chan said.

—But she doesn’t fit in the car, Esperanza protested.

—It’s a short drive, c’mon, Bobby said.

They drove through the small roads and into an opening inside the lowest of the valleys, where all one could see was sky and miles and miles of skin-splitting cane. Among all the green, the Colón family of Juan Dolio had built themselves a house with a zinc roof and a wood stove. And after all those years, the house was still waiting, nestled in an abandoned landscape, with struggling avocado and cashew trees. The deceased Colóns de Juan Dolio were buried nearby, far enough not to disturb the living’s sleep, but close enough for them to spot the tombstones. The small house was locked with a padlock. The names of all their ancestors carved on wild stones pressed against the ground. Despite the hurricanes, and the mild earthquakes, despite it all, the tombstones were as visible as day, to be read and respected.

The Colón family walked on the dirt, moist from a recent rain. The smell of latrine and wood burning filled the air.

—The land to the west of here was recently sold. I tried to convince them not to, but the price was right. Miraluz showed Don Chan as they walked around Los Llanos. She pointed to the newly grown sugarcane and sighed. They bring in the workers from Dajabón for short periods and treat them like cattle.