However, the first-name-only rule created myriad confusion when barking orders, because of mothers naming all their children by a patron saint or a soap star: Antonio, Martín, Altagracia, Octavio, María, José, and Jesús. People found themselves fighting over the car wheel or who would be the one to pick up the flyers that announced a ”child‘s birthday party.“

Robertico‘s cumpleaños. Come celebrate.

The meetings in the fields were filled with music. Disguised in songs were Don Chan‘s chants to inspire all the complacent to join the Invisible Ones.

—And who do the rich rely on?

—Nosotros! Don Chan said, responding to his own question, raising his hand to assert his point.

—Who do they leave their children with?

—Nosotros! the crowd responded, following his lead. Many banging on pots, others raising their hands in agreement. Drums picking up in beat.

—Who guards their house?

—Nosotros!

—Who chauffeurs their car?

—Nosotros!

—And they accuse us of stealing, they claim to pay us too much, they call us lazy when they talk to their friends, as if we don‘t have ears. We‘re not animals, we‘re not children, Don Chan chanted. As he watched the people dance until their feet were too tired to jump, to swing, to turn in the dirt, it was difficult for Don Chan to discern if the people attending the parties would vote at the elections.

—Now we only need to find someone for them to vote for, Santo said.

—Maybe Don Chan should run, Miraluz said, volunteering him.

—I‘m not interested, Don Chan said but didn‘t mean it. The thought had crossed his mind. But he knew he wouldn‘t win. A Chinese-looking man as president. The people wouldn‘t be able to look past his face. —For now, mobilizing the people is most important.

And while the Invisible Ones scrubbed floors, poured drinks, chauffeured cars, trimmed gardens, shined shoes, painted walls, and more, they were taking notes, making maps, plans of streets and important estates. For what, they weren‘t sure, but Don Chan insisted they stayed alert and learn everything they could in preparation.

—For too long we‘ve been working passively. Even in our smallest acts we need to right the wrongs.

Women were not sleeping with married men, in solidarity with other women; men were not talking to their friends who beat their wives, employers who abused their workers were finding centipedes in their shoes. Employers‘ gas tanks were emptied in the middle of the night, their electricity lines were being tapped into, their clothes were being burned with irons by workers.

The Invisible Ones multiplied, from Los Llanos to Dajabón. The people were restless, tired of bogus elections. Grandmothers prayed every Sunday morning for the return of the titles of land stolen from them. Santeras lit candles and sacrificed goats, asking the saints for employment. And children with hungry bellies danced in circles, hoping that when it rained, it would rain coffee, so that they could have something to sell on the streets.

Months later, a truck drove into Los Llanos. People gathered. Seldom did foreign trucks drive through their small town. A white skinned, blue-eyed man dressed in work pants and an open shirt stepped out.