—How could our people sell the land if it wasn’t theirs? Don Chan asked, mortified. He had bought all the land with the money he had found; he’d distributed the land evenly among all who joined the Invisible Ones movement, and together they created an agricultural system that worked toward Los Llanos being self-sufficient. Now, it had been mostly turned into sugarcane fields.

Field workers passed by and nodded. Dallas wiped the dirt off the windowsill and sat on its edge. She wondered what it would be like to live in such a place. She tried to imagine her grandfather as a young man hiding in all the green. His lean body exposed as he worked his days in the fields. She watched Miraluz in awe, her long, black hair braided and wrapped around her head.

Bobby pulled over a rusted folding chair and sat under a tree for shade with Consuelo and craved being with Miraluz again. He wanted to help her, and decided he would stay with her for a few extra days. He wanted her to spend time with Consuelo. He thought about Hush as he watched Consuelo stumble after a loose chicken. He feasted on the sun and imagined Sunday-afternoon barbecues with music blaring out of his surround-sound stereo system. He couldn’t imagine a cloudy day in D.R. He could live in such a climate. As long as he could plug in, he would be happy to stay.

Esperanza paced around and tried to keep the sweat off her face. Her makeup melted off, revealing caramel skin under white powder. How much was the land worth? The cane, where the house was. Once Don Chan died, she’d sell the land and pay all her debt so she could be free. Maybe even start saving for a house to retire in. She’d keep the small section of land for the graves. But the rest was useless to her. It was part of a past she didn’t care to remember. She paced and looked at her children and was taken aback by Bobby, who was smiling and pointing and carrying Consuelo around.

Bobby clapped with joy when she reached up to grab a bitter orange from a tree.

—Look at this. Where in New York City can you do this?

—The supermarket, Dallas said.

Esperanza sneaked off to spread Santo’s ashes over the blossoming bleeding hearts near the graves. She was caught in the thick air feeling relieved. And when she was accosted by a strange bug or flying leaf, debating if she should use the latrine, or piss in the wild shrubbery, thirsty but afraid of the water in the well, Esperanza was sure that Los Llanos was never a place she could call home.

Dallas poked inside Don Chan’s old house, studying the yellowed photos taped on a damaged mirror, all coated with dust. She looked at their ancestors in the photos. Esperanza had already taped a photo of Santo next to Doña Caridad. No matter how much the Colón family willed time to move faster, to keep in rhythm with their New York City pace, D.R. resisted and time went along as it needed to go. They weren’t like the president, who shortened and lengthened days. None of them had control of the sun that hovered over them in the late afternoon. Besides, willing time takes effort, and the familiar and not-so-familiar scenery kept their minds so busy they didn’t notice when Don Chan walked into the cane fields with Miraluz.