He swiped a shiny object off the president‘s desk, slipping it inside his shirtsleeve. The cold metal accompanied him. It could serve as a weapon. He was ready and walked away from the guards who were busy flirting with one of the trabajadoras. He walked out, focusing on the exit. He bent over a blossoming hibiscus plant and took in its smell to throw off the guards at the kiosk. His will was stronger than their duty to work. They cannot see me, I am invisible, Don Chan thought and walked by them, focusing on the gates to exit the palace. And when they called out to him, he bowed as if he didn‘t understand a word.

Don Chan returned to the circle and sat at the campfire. The crowd, twice the size. The air, thick with mosquitoes from the afternoon rainfall. The stars hovered over their heads as if waiting to be plucked. Hairy spiders scurried away in fear of the flames. People hadn‘t seen Don Chan in days. They had thought him dead. Taken away by Trujillo. They looked for his hands, his fingers. Nothing seemed to be missing. There were no scars to speak of. In fact, Don Chan appeared bigger in size.

—Don‘t keep us waiting, tell us what happened to you, hombre.

—Do I have a story to tell you, he said, and clapped his hands to clear the air.

He noticed the crowd lean forward and gather closer around him, hushing each other from whispering remarks, wanting to catch every detail that came out of his mouth. He realized the power of his words and enjoyed the attention. So much so that he already missed the crowd while they were still before him. It wasn‘t enough that they were listening to him. He wanted the power to pull the moon closer toward them. To wave away the bugs that riddled the night. To dampen the fire so that only his voice could be heard. His thoughts scared him. The people of Los Llanos were hungry. Yes, he had told many stories before, but he too had never entered Ciudad Trujillo. He had traveled around the world through books, newspapers, other people‘s stories, but to leave his small town and return, he had yet to do that. He was no longer one of them. His journey had changed him.

He pulled out a shiny object that looked like a dull knife, with the words CIUDAD TRUJILLO carved on the handle. Without it he would think that his journey had been a dream.

—What the hell is it? another asked. He tried to cut his hand with it.

—I don‘t know what it is, but I know it‘s his, Don Chan said, looking over his trophy.

—And no one gave you any trouble?

—I was like a ghost, Don Chan continued.

—To the Invisible Man, cheered one, falling over the bucket he used as a chair.

—No, my friends, to the Invisible Ones.

Don Chan passed his hands over the crowd and raised his beer for a group cheer. —To those hijos de la gran puta, we‘re all invisible. We must use our invisibility against them. If we fight alone, we‘re invisible, but if we rise together, we won‘t be ignored, he said, riling up the crowd.