“Much better,” Francisco Gómez says after taking a long gulp of coffee. “I came to work even before I had my coffee. I need to finish this application today and I forgot all the paperwork in my office.” He pats his messenger bag, where he stashed The Seed Sower. I miss the weight of it in my backpack. “Lucky for us that I did. Qué suerte.”

“What application?” Mercedes asks, her mouth full of waffle.

“I’m applying for a grant.”

“What for?”

“You see, I’m an anthropologist. Etnografía. How do you say it? An ethnographer. I study groups of people, different native cultures in South America. For many years, I’ve worked with the Arhuaco people in Colombia. I need funding—money—to return to the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta to continue my work.”

Returning to Colombia? Does he notice that Mercedes’s face has turned white, two splotches of red on each cheek? I glance under the table and see her fists. He doesn’t look at either of us but rummages around in his bag. Is he looking for The Seed Sower? No. He takes out a big, bulky phone, not a brand that I’ve seen before.

“Look, here is a family of Arhuaco. This is the mother and her three children, all girls.” Francisco Gómez hands us the phone and we see a picture of a brown-skinned woman with black hair and a white dress. The three girls next to her wear the same white clothes and carry woven bags on their shoulders. They’re smiling at the camera. A cluster of stars.

“Arhuacos have mostly remained separate from modern society. They live on the same land they’ve lived on for centuries. But climate change is having a very bad impact on them—their land, their way of life.”

I’m suddenly glad we went to the protest yesterday.

“It’s important for their culture to be understood, protected, respected. This woman’s grandfather is one of the leaders. He’s called a mamu. He’s a great storyteller. I’m learning so many stories from them. Stories that I hope will help people understand.”

Our father stares at the image on the screen like it holds secrets. Like the picture itself is going to start telling him a story. I want him to look at us. We have stories, I want to tell him.

“You’re not staying in California?” Mercedes has a drip of syrup on her chin. Her fork drops with a clatter.

“I’m only here at Northern Madrone until December.”

“But—” I want to say something, but I don’t know what it should be. Is there something I can say to keep him here? Instead, I blurt, “Do you have a wife? Children? I mean, other children?”