My arms and legs were so stiff they started to get sore. Worse yet, the ride was making me dizzier—I couldn’t go on. Martin said I could stay at his house; he had a spare bedroom I could use. I agreed, mostly because I feared that if I continued on that horse, I would end up retching every piece of food I’d consumed in the last two days. When I climbed off of Melchor, the world spun all around me. Martin helped me into the house, which was quiet and dark.

I nearly tripped on one of the steps and yelped.

“Shhh, Mayra is already asleep,” Martin said.

With Martin’s arm around my waist and my arm over his shoulders, we walked up the stairs. He led me to a room at the end of the hall, where I noticed a portrait of a man that looked like an older version of Martin. I pointed at it.

“That was my father,” he said.

There were still things I wanted to ask about his parents, but I couldn’t produce any words. He set me on the bed and helped me remove my jacket and my boots. Then, he stood up.

“Well, have a good night,” he said.

“Wait,” I said with a hiccup. “Would you help me remove this?” I pointed at my corset. “I can hardly breathe with it.”

Suffocated by the dense air around me, I unbuttoned Cristóbal’s shirt. I might have choked if I didn’t remove the pressure from my breasts right away. Gently, Martin assisted me in unwrapping the fabric around my chest until I was left in Cristóbal’s undergarments. After I removed my facial hair, something came over me, something I couldn’t explain. It could’ve been his scent—a blend of sweat and alcohol masked under his citric cologne; or maybe the fact that I’d been alone for too long and I yearned to be embraced, or the way Martin had watched me all evening—and was watching me now that I no longer looked like a man. Whatever it might have been, I didn’t care. I clasped my fingers around his neck and brought his face down toward mine. Off came my glasses, the buttons of my undergarment, his shirt. We kissed with the urgency of two people who’d been thirsty for too long and had finally stumbled upon a glass of water. Martin’s kisses had an unexpected tenderness to them. He was gentle, yet vehement. His hand traveled softly over my breasts, his lips on my neck.

“Puri,” he said. “Mi Puri.”