"Despertarse." She rubbed her hand over the messy hair. "Wake up, pajarita."

Ana slowly turned over and opened her eyes. "Mama, why do you call me little bird?"

Marisa smiled at her daughter and supplied the same answer she gave every morning. "Because you're always chirping."

Ana sat up, wrapped her slender arms around Marisa's neck, and kissed her on the cheek, her lips rose-petal soft. "Buenos dias."

"Good morning." Marisa responded in English. "Hurry and get your clothes on. Are you hungry?"

"Si."

Marisa laughed. "That's the other reason I call you little bird. You eat like a bird—three times your weight every day."

Five minutes later, they stepped into the sunshine. The early morning humidity would only get worse, and by afternoon, the air would be stifling. Marisa held Ana's hand, and they walked across the narrow gravel road to the orphanage that had been Marisa's place of employment since she'd arrived in town years earlier. The scent of coffee from the shop on the corner had her mouth watering. Sometimes on Saturdays, she would let Ana play with a neighbor and go to the coffee shop to enjoy one perfect cup. She'd take her sketchbook and pencils and draw what she saw—or what she remembered. Sometimes, the front of the old mission that had become the orphanage. Sometimes, the street she grew up on back in Queens. Sometimes, the face of her fiancé, dead eight years now. Often, she'd sketch Ana.

There'd be no sketching today, but maybe later, during siesta, she could set up her paints in the mission courtyard. An hour, no more, to satisfy the urge to create while her daughter and the rest of the town slept.

They entered the orphanage, passed the office, and headed down the long hallway to the cafeteria, their feet tapping on the faded red Spanish tiles. Marisa paused at the entrance. "Behave yourself and—"

"I know. Eat my eggs."

"They have protein. You want to grow healthy and strong."

Ana was halfway to her chair by the time Marisa finished the sentence. She waited until Ana had taken her seat beside her best friend at one of the long tables. The two tables each sat twenty kids on long benches. There seemed to be more than the room could accommodate this morning.

In the kitchen, Marisa served herself two huevos rancheros from a platter and poured a cup of coffee. She carried her breakfast to the office.

"Did we get more kids?" she asked when she stepped inside.

"Sí." Carlita looked up and rubbed her eyes. Her hair seemed grayer this morning, her skin paler. "A single mother dropped off three last night. She said her husband had disappeared, and she couldn't feed them."

Disappeared. Happened too often in this part of Mexico, and most of the time, the people never turned up except in the form of dried bones in the desert.

"So were you up all night?"

Carlita shrugged.