He said nothing as he continued to watch me. He gave two sharp claps, summoning an officer into the room with us. The soldier carried a faded poncho that he thrust at me. “Tell me, senhora, does this look familiar to you?”

I felt the garment in my hands. It had once been bright red, so bright that it stood out in sharp contrast to the mossy green trees. Now, after so much use it had faded. My fingers traced the patch I had sewn on the sleeve.

I had laughed when I first gave José his mended poncho back, saying that with the patch, he would really be the captain in the Ragamuffin War. I turned it over and saw a deep wine color blossom across the back. Gasping in shock, I lurched up, letting the chair clatter to the floor behind me as the poncho fell.

“I hate to inform you, senhora, but your husband was killed in the battle.” Moringue looked at me as if he had won.

Swaying a little, I reached out and steadied myself at the desk. There was no way that my husband could be dead. He was the Great Garibaldi. Men like him didn’t die.

Senhor Moringue leaned forward. “I can help you. I can protect you.”

“Protect me?” I cackled. “Protect me from what? From your men? From the Imperialist government? From you?”

“Anita, your husband is gone. You have nothing left. Tell me what you know and I will—”

I spit at him. The yellowish mucus landed on his cheek. It stuck there while he calmly removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the saliva away. “You’re right, I have nothing left,” I said, trying to control my trembling outrage. “What do I care what you do? The only thing I care about is that José was able to meet his destiny before me!”

He slammed his fist on the desk. A tiny statue of the Virgin Mary toppled onto the floor. “You are being hysterical.”

I stared at him, making him squirm in his chair. He shifted his weight, reminding me of a mouse that knows it’s about to be eaten by a snake. I couldn’t trust a mercenary who was responsible for so much damage, but then again, I needed to know the truth. “I will tell you everything you want to know, as long as I see my husband’s body.”

His eyes widened briefly in surprise. “The poncho is not enough?”

I turned my head to the side. “Would it be enough for you? I want to see my husband’s body for myself. I want my right, as his wife, to bury him.”

“I can’t send my men to search for his remains.”

“Then I will search for them myself.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“How badly do you want my information?”