“You stick with Héctor Ricardo,” he’d said when I had to get back to the convent. “I’ll take care of you; it’s in my name. The Latin root of Hector means ‘to defend and hold fast.’ And Ricardo means ‘power and bravery,’” he’d said, thumping his chest twice with his right fist. “Héctor Ricardo will take care of you!”

I could tell he meant it.

He’d gone on. “Marina. ‘Of the sea.’ That’s what your name means; did you know that?”

I’d told him I did not. I’d wondered what Birgitta meant. And Yasmin. What Emmalina was rooted in.

“That means you are Santa Teresa’s own Sea Queen,” he’d said with a sideways grin.

I’d laughed at him. “I think you’ve been drinking too much, Héctor Ricardo.”

“Yes,” he’d replied. “I am the town drunk, dear Marina. But don’t let that fool you. Héctor Ricardo is a defender all the same. And besides, show me a man without vice and I’ll show you one without virtue!”

Years later, he’s one of the few people I can call a friend.

It takes twenty-five minutes for the few hundred people to receive their due today; and after the last person leaves the line, it’s our turn to eat, sitting away from the others. As a group we eat as fast as we can, knowing that the quicker we clean up and get everything put away, the sooner we’ll be on our own.

Fifteen minutes later the five of us who work the line are scraping pots and pans and wiping counters. At its best, cleanup takes an hour, and that’s only if everyone leaves the cafeteria after they’re done eating, which rarely happens. As we’re cleaning, when I know the others aren’t looking, I throw into a bag the nonperishable items I plan to take to the cave today: dried fruits and berries, nuts, a can of tuna fish, a can of beans. This has become another weekly tradition of mine. For a long time I convinced myself I was doing it so I could snack when painting the cave’s walls. But the truth is I’m creating a stockpile of food in case the worst arrives and I have to hide. And by the worst, I mean them.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six