‘Give me some more,’ Santi shouted up.

She ignored him. She was watching his father, Juan Espe-ranza, climbing higher into the tree, the fabric of his trousers flapping around his thin legs, his rope-soled shoes finding grip on the bark. It was always a spectacle to her, seeing how the men moved so confidently without ropes, balancing on branches and swinging their axes through the air. Three years ago there had been a nasty accident when old Pablo Morales had slipped, his axe falling after him into a soft landing. The ensuing tales of gore had been enough to get her brothers here to watch with her for the next two seasons, just in case, but to their disgust, the men were more careful than ever and there had been not so much as a broken fingernail since.

It wasn’t why she came though. She loved the sound of the harvests: the axes thunking in rhythm, the farmers’ chatter and songs, the creak of the bark as it split and gave, the melancholic haw of the donkeys as their backs were laden with the fresh cargo; but more than anything, she loved watching the spectacle of the old cork oak forest changing colour, the newly reddened trunks like sunburnt arms, matching the brick earth. In the distance, where the land rose up from these gentle slopes, she could see the pueblo blanco in the valley, its tiny, primitive houses little more than white dots from here. Her own house was out of sight from here, hidden in the shade of—

‘Nene!’

She looked down. Santi was on the bough below, his hand outstretched for another segment. He had already eaten all three of the oranges she had dared to pilfer from the grove for him on the way through, and now he wanted the last of hers. But his limbs were so skinny, his brown eyes so big in his face, how could she refuse? She tossed the rest of the orange down to him, seeing how his face split into that signature grin which always spelled trouble, his oversized teeth bright against his tawny skin.

‘I’m bored. Let’s go,’ he said, juice dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt as he crammed the orange into his mouth, a half at a time.

‘And do what?’

‘Go swimming,’ he managed, the words muffled.

‘Swimming?’ she scoffed, even though her skin felt tight and dusty. ‘You’re a fool, Santi Esperanza, the lake is dry. And you know we can’t go near the house. Papa is home.’

‘So then let’s see Leviatan again. I bet I can make him chase me this time.’

‘Ha! You’re so small, you’re not worth the effort. He may as well toss a grasshopper as you.’ But she climbed down from the tree anyway, her skirts tucked into her knickers to free her legs. She detested wearing dresses – they were hot and got in the way; the only thing they were good for was hiding the scabs on her knees from when she fell during their races.