She looks incredulously at me. “I will do no such thing. And it’s Sister Adelina. If you’ll excuse me, Marina, I was in the middle of a conversation,” she says.

I shake my head at her. Tears form in my eyes. Adelina doesn’t remember what it feels like to ask for help and not receive it.

I turn and run from the room and up the winding staircase to the church offices. To the left, at the end of the hall, the only door closed is the one leading to Sister Lucia’s office. I race towards it, trying to decide what I should do. Should I knock? Should I kick straight through it? But I don’t get the chance to do either. When I’m within reaching distance of the knob, I hear the crack of the paddle, followed instantly by a scream. I’m frozen in shock. Ella cries on the other side of the door and a second later the door is opened by Sister Dora.

“What are you doing here?” she snaps at me.

“I came to see Sister Lucia,” I lie.

“She’s not here, and you’re due in the kitchen. Go on,” she says, shooing me the way I came. “I’m headed there myself.”

“Is she okay?”

“Marina, it’s none of your concern,” she says, and then grabs me by the bicep, spins me around, and gives me a shove.

“Go!” she orders.

I move away from the office, hating the fear that runs through me every time confrontation stares me in the face. It’s always been that way—with the Sisters, with Gabriela García, with Bonita on the dock—I get the same feeling, the same nervousness that quickly segues to dread, that always causes me to walk away.

“Walk faster!” Sister Dora barks, following me down the staircase and towards the kitchen where El Festín duties await.

“I have to use the restroom,” I say before we reach the kitchen, which is a lie; I want to make sure Ella’s okay.

“Fine. But you better make it fast. I’m timing you.”

“I will.”

I duck around the corner and wait thirty seconds to make sure she’s gone. Then I rush back the way we came, up the staircase, down the hall. The office door is slightly ajar and I walk through it. The interior is dark, somber. A layer of dust covers the shelves that line the walls, upon which sit ancient books. The only light enters through a dirty stained glass window.