Don Chan spat at those people who called him crazy for risking his life to prove a point.

—If all over the world there are men who walk through fire, feet over coals, by concentrating on their destination and not on the path, why can‘t I do the same? All of Trujillo‘s guards and their guns aren‘t stronger than my will, said Don Chan.

—Why start trouble for ourselves now? We‘ve managed fine enough all these years. Doña Caridad tried reasoning with him while she pressed his shirt to wear on his mission. —We ain‘t going anywhere but old.

—No one leaves this town, because they‘re afraid. My father fled Juan Dolio because he feared the city. I‘m tired of hiding. But worse, we don‘t even know what we‘re hiding from. We can‘t rely on the newspapers. They tell us nothing about what‘s happening in this country. We need to find out for ourselves.

—Take me to the palace, Don Chan told the Trucker, pointing toward the road.

The Trucker didn‘t talk while he drove on the narrow roads leading to the capital. Don Chan was too busy seeing Ciudad Trujillo for the first time to care for a conversation. Manicured trees, mansion-style homes, traffic jams, cars parked in driveways. The city dense with people, wearing freshly shined shoes and dressed in their best.

—No one seems to give a shit, Don Chan said to the Trucker. —These city folk don‘t look scared to me.

Women hid from the sun under umbrellas. Men sported white hats and suits.

—Half of the city works for el Jefe. You don‘t bite the hand that feeds you.

The sight of it all made Don Chan nervous. It was all too big, too much, too loud.

—We‘re here. The Trucker pointed to the palatial building with two guards standing upright on each side of the entrance.

—Are you sure? The palace looks smaller than I imagined it.

—Everything looks bigger in pictures, the Trucker reassured Don Chan and pointed to the corner where he would wait for him.

Don Chan stood across the street surveying the entrance. He watched a few people walk through the gates and noticed that the guards hadn‘t asked them any questions. Don Chan held his empty briefcase close to him. When he started walking toward the palace, he hoped the guards couldn‘t smell the stench of death in the suit he was wearing. Twenty, maybe thirty, men had already worn that dark blue pin-striped suit on their funeral day before they were buried. He bowed his head to them, but the young men wearing military uniforms stayed in position and faced forward, unconcerned with Don Chan‘s entry. It troubled Don Chan. He had anticipated more resistance.

He climbed the gray marble steps leading up to the palace‘s entrance. There was no time to ask questions. He relied on his intuition, which had proved to be a trustworthy compass. All his life, people had asked him where he was from. The truth was that he didn‘t know, so if he were caught, he‘d pretend to be lost. Besides, he was already up the steps. There was no turning back.