—You see, little Chan, the sea, as well as the trees, the rocks, the eyes of a child are the compass to the soul’s journey.

Little Chan tried very hard to understand Don José and slowly picked up words, like mar, sol, tierra, luna, pescado. Together they’d laugh at their misunderstandings. Months and months passed and little Chan no longer looked for ships, in search of his parents. Don José was his new family.

Don José and little Chan saw the big American ships sail toward San Pedro de Macorís. And soon after, Don José had heard about the small insurrections around the country, that the peasants and landowners alike did not want the U.S. to put its nose in a matter they could take care of themselves. Everyone knew that to intervene on trouble in someone else’s house was an insult. They were not children and felt capable of ruling themselves. They feared having to give up their freedom to the United States. Even the poorest peasants knew that when someone gave them a dollar, it was only because they could make two off their backs.

Don José could tell by the crashing of the waves and the restlessness of the animals on his land that there was about to be great trouble in D.R. Untrusting of the U.S. occupation, Don José cut his trips into the city and made his fishing voyages closer to shore. At night, the Colón de Juan Dolio family didn’t light a fire because it was better not to be seen so that the military never questioned their existence.

—I go with you I want to see city, little Chan said.

—No, you protect the women while I go away, Don José said.

—I want to see city, little Chan said. He had spent a year listening to Don José tell the adventures of Martí, in Cuba, the Haitian revolution that Don José carried in his blood, the stories of all the ancestors who washed up onshore and who Don José buried so they could die with honor.

—When you’re older, you can come. Now you stay with the women.

Little Chan looked straight at Don José. Every child knew that to look an elder in the eye was asking for cruel punishment. Don José’s first impulse was to teach little Chan a lesson, but if Don José had learned anything from the hours he spent with nature it was that to abuse part of oneself didn’t teach any lesson at all. If everything that was alive was a part of Don José, to hit little Chan would be to hit himself. If little Chan survived the sea, the city won’t kill him, Don José thought.

—Put on some sandals. The journey is long and it will burn your feet.

Little Chan walked along with Don José through the thick of the trees in Juan Dolio, his head up high, excited that he would see the city he only knew in his imagination. The neighbors looked at them and whispered about the odd couple, a dark, tall man and a small Chinese boy.