—My name is Juan Bosch, he said, not fazed by the emaciated mule, the clotheslines, the chickens eating grain, the smell of manure, tobacco and burning wood. Like one of them, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve and took an empty seat where the men were having a drink.

—You represent el pueblo, and this country should serve you, Bosch said, his accent affected from the years he lived in exile.

Don Chan listened to Bosch‘s ideas about cooperative stores, agrarian reform, ways to improve education and health facilities. Bosch denounced the Dominican rich who wore their Spanish ancestry like their true bandera and the gringos who wanted D.R. as their new stomping ground.

—I leave you this transistor radio so you can follow what is happening in the city. I will win the presidency because el pueblo will support me. And I will do right by you all. I promise.

—Everyone must vote. We‘ll vote twice if we have to, Don Chan told the crowds soon after Bosch‘s visit. This man would ensure their freedom.

Miraluz didn‘t trust a man whose hands looked like alabaster. And Juan Bosch, an intellectual, had lots of ideas, but what did he know about the way of the land?

—It‘s a terrible idea, Miraluz said. —Even if this so-called man is sympathetic to the needs of el pueblo, he won‘t risk his life for it.

Miraluz was surrounded by a group of spineless followers. She no longer wore the yellow dress, she wore jeans and a large T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a long braid. Don Chan could still see her small waist underneath the big clothes.

Don Chan glared at her. It was not the appropriate time for her smart mouth. They needed to appear united or they wouldn‘t progress at all.

—The goal is for him to enforce laws that protect us, Don Chan said. —The constitution won‘t allow for a dictatorship again.

—But we need someone like us, who knows what it‘s like to be poor, Miraluz insisted. —Someone like Toussaint. He wasn‘t afraid to die for his people‘s freedom.

—You want us to end up like Haiti? another called out. —Forget the Haitians.

—Speak for yourself. Many of us have Haiti in our blood. Santo stood close to Miraluz to show solidarity.

Miraluz held on to Santo‘s arms. Don Chan felt a twinge of jealousy. He had lost control of the crowd and was also losing the affections of Miraluz.

—Be careful what you wish for, Miraluz. Everything looks simple when you read it out of a book, but nothing that requires violence is heroic, Don Chan said and pulled Santo from her. —Trujillo wasn‘t only poor, but he had Haitian in him, and he ordered the murder of tens of thousands of Haitians. I‘ve made up my mind. You want to go bomb the president‘s palace? Do as you will, but I‘m voting for Bosch.

Months later, the people elected Juan Bosch, and Los Llanos gathered the distressed, the unemployed, the frustrated on Sundays. The music and the abundance of cane juice kept the spirits high. They were so filled with optimism, that even when a hurricane stormed through the valley and stole away the rooftops from over their heads, they said, —No hay nada mal que por bien no venga. And fell asleep in their homes with a view to the stars, wondering why they ever had a roof to begin with. They had chosen their own president for the first time in their lives. And the blessings in Los Llanos were abundant. A hurricane had ripped through town, unearthing a number of treasures on the land people squatted on.