At my questioning look, Iván gives his head a slight shake, and my heart sinks. Does that mean he wasn’t able to deliver our message?

“Later,” he mouths, eyeing Aldo.

Iván and everyone else heads toward the mess, and I move to pursue, feeling a little queasy. What went wrong? Are we cut off from communicating with Rosario?

Aldo puts a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, Red.”

He allows time for the other recruits to trickle away, then he reaches under his mattress and pulls out several long rags and a wad of straw. “The quartermaster didn’t have much to spare except this ticking for mattress repairs,” Aldo says. “For now, you can wrap it in these strips. Throw the ticking away when you’re done, but wash and reuse the strips. Mamá always preferred wool to straw. I’ll try to get wool for you later on.”

“Aldo,” I breathe as he hands the pile over to me. “This is perfect. Thank you so . . . wait, this fabric . . .” It’s tightly woven, dyed rich blue with black trim. I’ve seen gowns at Deliverance Day balls that were made of lesser material. “Is this your blanket? The one your mamá made for you?”

Aldo shrugs. “Like I said, the quartermaster didn’t have a lot to spare. Tight fabrics like this offer the best protection, right?”

I gape at him. This was one of his three items. And he destroyed it for me.

He says. “It’s no big deal, for a friend.”

“Well, it’s a big deal to me.”

His grin could light up the whole world. “I’m going to get some dinner. I’ll save you a seat.”

Quickly, I wrap some straw in the strips he provided and shove the wad into place. It’s not the most comfortable solution I’ve used, but it’ll do. I pile the remaining supplies in my drawer, covering up the Godstone, the baby rattle, and the empty dye pot.

We’re served overcooked, oversalted porridge for dinner, and I eat every bite. Aldo and I are surrounded by recruits at the table, providing no opportunity for me to discreetly speak with Iván.

After dinner, Guardsman Bruno ushers us all into the arena and commands us to sit. Aldo is practically a burr in my side, and it seems awkward and pointed when I move away from him in order to be close to Iván.

Evening light paints the walls purple pink, and a cool breeze brings the scents of sweet lantana and sharp desert sage. I’m delighted when, instead of conducting physical exercises, Bruno subjects us to a long lecture on the care and maintenance of various weapon types.

I already know all this, so instead of listening, I watch him walk. Back and forth across the sand he goes, hands clasped behind his back, droning on and on. His boots are certainly worn enough to be the ones I spied while stuck beneath Bolivar’s bed, but I’m not sure his feet are big enough. Sometimes it seems as though he’s walking on the inner arch of his feet, but maybe it’s just the uneven sand.