Mercedes was trembling. Juan put his fingers between the bars of the cage next to her and with a slight movement beheaded the imbunche child, who barely moved. His hot blood-soaked Mercedes’ shoes.

The other children, crazed by the salty smell, bellowed.

“What else, let’s see . . . Who carried it out? I went to see the bus driver who hit her. He doesn’t even remember the accident. He was sent. You’re capable of doing that, with help, of course. Why? What did she say to you?”

Mercedes’ sobbing surprised Juan. It was convulsive and sad, somewhat desperate.

“She was planning to kill me. Did you know? Didn’t she tell you? I had to defend myself.”

Juan pictured Rosario and her silver bracelets, the white band in her hair, speaking Guaraní with a fluency that astonished everyone. Rosario with her expensive perfumes and her pen between her teeth when she read, placing the fan behind her so it would blow on her-back instead of her face. Rosario with her lists and her fingers covered in ink, or in chalk.

Delicately, he drew a circle around Mercedes’ mouth, and in his open palm he caught his mother-in-law’s lips and teeth. Then he cauterized the wound. Mercedes’ screams and those of the caged children were deafening, but he went on with his work. He licked each tooth clean and chewed the lips before Mercedes’ bulging eyes. She was no longer suffering, because when the wound was closed the pain disappeared. The scars of the wounds Juan made never had the tenderness of a recent injury; they were hard and old. Then he brought Mercedes’ face to his and used his tongue to clean away all the blood on her chin and neck. When he finished, he threw her to the floor.

“I should cut off the hand you hit my son with. It’s nothing to you, is it? But with this”—and he opened his hand to show her the shining teeth, somewhat spoiled by tobacco stains and lead fillings—“I have enough material to keep you from ever touching him again, or even trying to. I can also use these to control you and hurt you in other ways.”

Mercedes grunted. With her bare gums and dark glasses, she looked ridiculous, grotesque. Juan had nothing else to say to her. He left and closed the door behind him: he locked it using another sign that some members of the Order, certainly Florence, would be able to recognize and reverse. But not immediately. Mercedes would be locked in for a long time, listening to her pets die as she wandered that ghoulish tunnel, choking on the stench of shit and decomposing children. It didn’t matter. They had won and he didn’t have much time, but now he knew what he wanted to know. They couldn’t deceive him anymore.